My Mom the Liar

Have I ever told you guys about how my mom is a liar?

Obviously I am referring to lies beyond the typical "Santa Claus is watching you" and "eating carrots will make your eyes sparkle" kind of lies. I'm talking about lies that stay with you your entire life, until one day, reality comes crashing down on you and you're like WHAT IS HAPPENING?

Those kind of lies.

I grew up believing that I am allergic to cats. Whenever I was around a cat, I would think "uh-oh" and keep away. My eyes would "itch" and "water." Or, at least I thought they would itch and water. But of course they didn't, because I am not at all allergic to cats.

Are you confused? Let me be clear: my mother lied to me when I was a four-year-old and told me I was allergic to cats. Being a dumb four-year-old, I had no reason to question her. I didn't want to question her, either, because I thought it was awesome. Having an allergy made me different than my two older sisters; it made me special. I envisioned countless special allergy attacks in which everyone would be deeply concerned about my well-being.

 Well go figure, no such allergy attack ever came. The only change this new ailment brought to my life was that I could no longer play at my friend Olivia's house. Olivia's family had ten cats, then one of those cats had kittens, and then there were eighteen cats. Each cat had a name. You couldn't go anywhere in that house without encountering a cat.  It was like a cat party every day.

When the "devastating" news of my allergy came about, I had to stop playing at Olivia's. She could come to our house to play, or we could play in one of our yards. Sure, it was tough, but Olivia and I made it through. We agreed that my health was more important.

Here is a fun-fact about my mom: she is not a cat person. She is actually not much of an animal person in general, unless the animal is a golden retriever. She makes a big exception for golden retrievers.

The idea of her youngest daughter hanging out in a house with eighteen cats was too much for my mother. She couldn't handle it. The presence of cats on kitchen counters and cabinets and couches and toilets and sinks and beds and window sills -- simultaneously -- disturbed her on a level that is difficult to explain. So she decided I should not go there ever again.

 Instead of looking mean and saying "I think having eighteen cats is creepy and you can't go there anymore," she looked concerned and said "Darling, you are allergic to cats, so sadly you will be unable to play at Olivia's anymore." And I bought it big time.

Thus, the great lie was born. I walked around for years like an idiot, avoiding cats and feeling very self-important. Even now I am wary of cats, either out of habit or because they are kind of scary and mean. I'm not sure which one.