#thetoby and I were having a chat this evening. He’s been sleeping well (think a solid 12 hours a night) and as such he wakes up chatting and does. not. stop. all morning and all night.

So, he was nattering on about something he and his seat mate on the school bus, Joshua, were talking about and he casually says, “Well, that’s because Joshua doesn’t know my lying face yet.”

We were in the car. I swiveled my eyes to the rearview mirror. He did the same. We locked gazes for a few seconds. There was silence.

I could SEE the wheels turning in his head frantically. “Oh my God, I just admitted to my mom that I lie. I let her know I’m so experienced at it that I know I have a ‘face’ for it. Jesus H, what do I do now?!?! Do I lie? But then she’ll see my lying face. Aaaggghhhhhh!!!!”

“What do you mean, your ‘lying face?’ ” I queried in a light-hearted tone.

His inner debate found him coming down on the side of brutal honesty. I have to give him credit for that.

“My face does something funny when I lie, Mom,” he said solemnly. “I try not to lie, but if I do, my face feels weird.”

“What does it do?” I asked, gently. This was getting amusing, because he was simultaneously embarrassed, chagrined and remorseful.

“It gets all hot,” he said earnestly, gesturing to his cheeks. “My face gets really warm. I don’t know why.”

By this time I was almost crying laughing. I had totally been expecting him to have a poker face he uses when he lies, but no, he’s inherited my over-enthusiastic facial capillaries. I flush at anything, and it would seem that he does as well.

“That’s OK, bud, that’s a totally normal reaction your body has to lying. It happens to mom, too,” I assured him.

“Oh, I know,” he said.

Silence. “What do you mean, you know?” I asked.

“Your face gets all red when you lie, too,” he retorted.

“When do I lie to you?” I said, trying not to think about all the parenting white fibs that go on. It’s one of the first things you learn when you’re a parent—lying is your friend.

“You know, like when you tell me that I won’t get any presents at Christmas if I’m bad. I was really bad last year and I still got plenty of presents, so when you said that this year I knew you were lying.”

Ba dump bump.

Needless to say, I changed the subject pretty darn quick. Thankfully, 5-year-olds are easily distracted by flashing holiday lights.

But now I know #thetoby’s tell. And he knows mine. So it’s game on.

#thetoby needed a school-friendly costume to wear to kindergarten today for Halloween. He wanted to be Marshall from Paw Patrol.

We found out about the “dress like your favorite book character” theme on Sunday night, which started the Marshall train rolling. While I technically could have wielded my Amazon Prime power to get a Marshall costume to the house on time, I am the epitome of an “okayest mom ever.” I just didn’t want to spend another $25 on a costume when my kid had so conveniently decided to be a cow this year for his trick-or-treating escapades. You see, we already had a cow costume (that he’d worn to pre-school last year) in the closet, and it still fit him. I mean, that’s the very definition of no-effort, okayest mom. #winning I couldn’t sully that lack of effort by conjuring up a Marshall outfit at the last minute. I mean, he might start expecting me to be more than okay.

We cleverly came up with a compromise—he could wear the firefighter outfit he got at Christmas to school and sort of be Marshall. If Marshall were a tiny human instead of an animated Dalmatian. Kids learn quickly what a compromise is when you’re content keeping the momming at okayest ever level.

So this morning, Toby was decked out in his fireman’s outfit, which is really quite elaborate, with all kinds of tools and a pretty heavy duty helmet. My mom (who likes to label presents “From Santa”) had given it to Toby at Christmas after I’d procured it. Toby examined the large badge on the front of the helmet carefully, then asked me, “Why doesn’t this badge have my name on it like the ones on the helmets of the real firefighters?”

In the middle of fixing his lunch, I blithefully replied, “Oh, there wasn’t an option to add a name when I ordered it.”

There was a pretty weighty silence from his direction, and I glanced up at him. He was leveling me with a stony glare.

“But mom, SANTA got me this.”

Shit.

I had zero memory of what the tag said on that present 10 months ago, but believe you me, I am 100 percent sure my kid remembers what it read. “Oh, that’s right,” I babbled. “Well, I think maybe the elves in Santa’s workshop didn’t have time to add your name.”

“Why did you say you picked it out if the elves made it?”

You know how they say that when someone’s lying, they add too many details? Yep, I fell in that trap. I kept going. “You know,” I said. “Santa talks to Mom before Christmas to find out what you want. You send him a list, but sometimes he needs more information or I give him other ideas. I think I suggested the firefighter outfit to Santa for you.”

Another long silence. I nervously glanced over at him, eating his breakfast with the wheels in his brain spinning.

“But Mom, the firefighter jacket is too big for me. If you talk to Santa and tell him about me, why didn’t you tell him my right size?”

Seriously, people, what would YOU say to that?

I was pretty stumped, but I think I came up with, “Well, Mom just wanted to make sure you had room to grow into it so you could wear it for a lot of years.”

He just sat and stared at me with an inscrutable gaze. I honestly cannot tell you if he still believes in Santa and was genuinely asking questions, then pondering why my answers reeked of bullshit, or if he’s sussed out the Santa thing and was epically trolling me. His expression revealed no indication either way. But I have a pretty good feeling that with his freakish memory and my sloppy Santa narrative, we’re hurtling headlong toward the Santa myth being debunked far too early.