Trust

From the time she was a Petite Pain, the Old Baguette knew she could trust her mother to tell her the truth.  She couold trust her father to tell her the truth, too, because she never, ever heard him tell a lie, even one of those teeny, tiny white ones that aren't supposed to matter, but do.  Her father didn't have to earn the Petite Pain's trust.  He had it.  Her mother did tell one of those teeny, tiny white lies from time to time, so the Petite Pain put her mother to the test.  Her mother passed.  She took tests well.

When the Petite Pain was in kindergarten, the children painted pictures on large sheets of manila paper that were mounted on easels.  When the other children had painted a recognizable flower or house, they stopped painting.  The Petite Pain didn't.  She kept adding trees, pets, people, suns, moons, pirates, kings, and boats to her paintings.  She used lots of green and red, her favorite colors.  The colors inevitably blended  together.  In the end, almost without exception, her paintings were abstractions in brown.  One day, she looked at one of these abstractions and saw it for what it was -- a study in ugliness.  When the painting was dry, she brought it home and showed it to her mother.  Her mother made the kind of comment a mother makes before she attaches her child's atrocity to the family's refrigerator. "Why, that's very nice, dear."  The Petite Pain looked coldly at her mother and said, "You know perfectly well it's awful."  From that moment, the Petite Pain's mother, when asked for an opinion about anything at all, spoke nothing but Truth.

Did the Petite Pain sing like a nightingale?  "Well, if I were you, I'd save myself some embarrassment.  I'd forget about auditioning for the Major Bowes Amateur Hour?"

Was the cake the Petite Pain just baked any good?  "Well, it was better than plenty I've baked.  Your father liked it, but  he'll eat anything.  Maybe you just need a different recipe."

Do you think I'll ever be a good knitter?  "I can't answer that question.  No one ever sees your knitting.  You get up to the sweater's armholes and then leave it on the bus.  Do you need more yarn?" 

Do you think I could ever be a professional ballet dancer?  "No."

Do you think I'm old enough to wash my hair by myself?  "Yes."

Besides being an absolutely reliable reality check, the Petite Pain's mother never protected her from hearing the truth from others.  When she was fifteen, the Petite Pain told her mother she was going for a job interview at one of the major hospitals in Chicago.  Her mother didn't remind her that her typing skills were poor or that she was probably too young to be hired.  Instead, she said, "Good idea.  Do you know how to get there?"  The Petite Pain did know the way and arrived on time for the interview.  When she was taking the required typing test, she went for speed.  Her fingers flew, but . . . .  After deductions had been made for errors, the Petite Pain had managed to type minus 13 words per minute.  That no one laughed was surprising.  That the Petite Pain was not hired was not surprising.  Her mother's reaction wasn't surprising either.  "Had she had a good time?"  Yes.  "Had she learned anything?"  Yes.  If you want to get a job, make sure you've got the skills to keep it.  Also, when taking typing tests, concentrate on accuracy.  Her father's reaction was equally unsurprising.  "Minus 13 words per minute?  Was that a record?"