I can’t remember the first really bad thing that happened to me. I wonder if time has dulled the senses or if I was lucky enough to spend my early childhood without such memories.

I remember the first big lie I told, and seeing the situation implode should have cured me of that for life, you’d think, but like everyone else, I never thought I would get caught that next time. I would be smarter about it. My father is fond of hyperbole, though his exaggerations are more for dramatic effect than to deceive anyone.

I do remember the first time my father told a story about me while I was in earshot that I wanted to correct. I had told my mother of his error and was told that it is very impolite to correct an adult like that. She informed me that if I had a problem with it, I should take it up with my father, who promptly brushed it off.

My father is a sweet and kind man. His sarcasm and his way with words are enviable, unless of course, that funny story everyone’s laughing at is about you, and it’s only partly true, and you’re made to be the fool.