The first time I lied to my mother (at least the first time I can remember) I was about 8 years old. I made a mess in the kitchen right after she cleaned it. She marched all four of us kids in there and asked who did it. I'm the youngest.
I pointed to my brother and said "Mitch did it." His mouth dropped open at the blatant lie. He's five years older than me, and we all usually told the truth at our house. It's an unwritten rule that we still abide by.
"I didn't do it mom, Julie did." He was appalled.
"No, I didn't," I said calmly, "he's lying. He did it."
My mom looked at both of us, slightly confused. I knew she was trying to figure out what to do. I held her eyes in my firm, determined gaze.
"Clean it up, Mitch," she said and walked out of the room, defeated, knowing one of her children was lying but too tired and disappointed to fight with us.
After he cleaned up the mess, I went looking for my mom.
"I really did it mom," I said matter of factly.
"Why did you lie?" she said.
"I just wanted to see if you'd still believe whatever I said. And now that I know you do, I don't need to lie any more."
The last time I lied to my mother was a few months ago.
She asked me if I'd prayed to Jesus to help my husband find a job. I said yes. Of course.
She knew I was lying, but she pretended she didn't.