Gather ’round, everyone, and hear the tale of a 10-year-old JD: a lying, faking, selfish monster of a child who needlessly worried her parents and spent innocent taxpayer’s money, just for a little attention.
Kids! Craving Attention?
You will need:
- 1 head
- the ability to lie (does not have to be convincing)
- 1 or 2 loving but gullible parents
Like many of you, both my parents worked during my childhood. I was too young to be grateful (“Pork chops AGAIN?!”), but I never questioned it. It’s just the way things were. When I was wee, I had a babysitter named Mrs. Peterson, and her breasts were so huge that when her cleavage was exposed (which was a disturbing amount of the time), I thought she had a second butt on her chest. ‘Cuz, you know, it looked like a butt. ANYway, fast-forward to when I was 10. By this time I was hanging out at my friend Rhonda’s house after school until my parents came home. Rhonda’s mom was a drunk, but that was better than nothing.
I fell off the picnic table.
Like most 10-years-olds, I was physically indestructable, so it was no big deal. But Rhonda’s mom made a big deal out of it, and I rather liked it. It was the sort of attention I felt I was sorely missing from my own parents, who were selfishly working to put pork chops on our table. My young brain began to spin a web of deception.
“Owwww! My head!”
I envisioned spending the week in bed with a giant bandage wrapped around my head, while my mom catered to my every whim, including dragging the TV into my bedroom. My brother would be so jealous! My friends would be so jealous! Jealous, jealous, jealous!
I staggered around dizzily, pretending to see butterflies and spots. I told Mrs. Rhonda my head hurt. Everything was blurry.
When my parents got home from work, Mrs. Rhonda nervously told them what had happened. By this time, I was in full performance mode.
“Mom? Is that you? I can’t really see . . .”
My parents were sort of terrified. YESSS! They drove me to the hospital and got me settled into the waiting room, all the while asking me anxious questions:
“How many fingers am I holding up?” (two)
“Um . . . four?”
“What color is my coat?” (green)
“Um . . . blue?”
Damn, I was good! I settled back in my seat, waiting excitedly for the head bandaging to begin. Neither parent took their eyes off me. The looks on their faces! They were so worried. We’d probably stop at McDonald’s on the way home! And my brother would be so jealous!
In the examining room, the doctor checked me over and asked more “how many fingers” questions. By now I had it down pat. It never even occurred to me that the doctor might think I was lying. My parents believed me. Mrs. Rhonda had believed me. I was starting to believe me. After all, I had fallen off a picnic table! I probably really had busted my head. The fact that I didn’t have any symptoms should not stop me from getting the attention I so desperately needed.
I was getting sleepy. It’s tough work being a big, fat liar. I wanted my bandage and my McDonald’s. I wanted to be home where my mom could fuss over me.
“Well, she may have a concussion,” the doctor said.
What? That’s the first time I’d heard that word, and it sounded horrifying. What the hell kind of doctor was this? Where was my bandage? A concussion? Am I going to die?
“I think we’ll keep her overnight for observation just to be safe.”
Uh, no. No, no, no. This is not the plan. Just bandage my head and send me home. I do NOT want to stay here! Mom! Dad! Where are you going? Don’t leave me alone!
But it was too late. I was in too deep. I couldn’t admit to faking the whole thing now. I had to go through with it.
It was the longest night of my life. I didn’t sleep. At one point, I called a nurse and told her I was scared. She brought me some aspirin and sat with me for a while. My roommate kept throwing up what looked like raw eggs. I was convinced the doctor knew I’d been lying and was punishing me by making me stay there. Despite my selfish tendencies, I did have enough self-awareness to appreciate the irony of the situation.
When morning came a thousand years later, my family pediatrician popped in. He looked me over and pronounced me perfectly fine. While he didn’t outright call me a liar, you could kinda tell he knew.
And as if the previous hellish night hadn’t been punishment enough, when I stood up to get dressed, my pajama bottoms fell to the floor. My 10-year-old bottom-half nakedness was on full display to the entire room, which included my roommate’s family, extended family, friends, and neighbors. OK, God. I get it. I suck.
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PS. Many years later, I confessed to my mom what I was sure she must’ve either already suspected or at least figured out some time later. I had made the whole thing up! It was all an act! Wasn’t that funny? Um, no. My mom got really mad. But I was only 10! It was a cry for attention. No dice. She had really believed me and was really upset. To this day she brings it up at family gatherings to make me feel bad. And I do. Sort of.
* * *
Did you pull any attention-getting stunts? Were you a good liar? Would your parents have bought this crap? Most important: Was I really a rotten kid or just kind of pathetic?
I doubt anyone at Humor-Blogs has EVER lied.