I suck at lying. I blame the Hershey Corporation.

My brother Brett and I could not have been more different as children.

One look of disappointment from my parents would ruin my world.

There was very little that ruined Brett's.

Seriously.

He was the kid who, after receiving a spanking, was brave enough to turn around and say "that didn't even hurt."

Brave, yes. Smart, no.

Nothing like adding weeks of grounding to your brave butt.

I rarely got into much trouble and recall being spanked only once.

I was six years old and we were living on an Air Force Base in Japan.

My parents have never tolerated lying. For any reason.

Even trying it is stupid. My mother has super secret powers and will bore holes through you with her icy stare until you confess. The most hardened criminal would buckle. Trust me.

So, there I was, six years old and not at all interested in the vegetables on my plate.

"Eat your vegetables or you don't get dessert," my mom said, repeating her nightly warning.

"What's for dessert?" came my nightly inquiry. My mom could be sneaky. She'd lead you to believe an amazing dessert was right around a clean plate and then hand you an apple or a peach stuffed with cottage cheese.

I might have only been six, but I knew her game. Only the promise of chocolate cake would result in me suffering through those veggies.

"Not playing that game, little one," my mom said. "You eat your vegetables and then you find out what's for dessert."

I turned my nose up at my plate and asked to be excused.

An hour later, upstairs in my room, a craving for something sweet made me lose my ever loving mind.

I knew my parents were watching TV downstairs in the living room. I crept as slowly as I could down the carpeted stairs.

I paused on the bottom stair and sucked in my breath, trying to make myself as skinny as possible. I pushed my back into the hallway wall, took a few short steps and found myself in the kitchen.

As quietly as possible, I climbed up on the counter top and stood up, barely able to peer over the refrigerator.

BINGO!

Hershey's kisses.

I snatched as many as my little hands would hold and slithered back down to the floor. Unable to stop myself, I unwrapped two pieces of chocolate goodness and stuffed them in my mouth.

Back against the wall again, I began to breath only when I reached the stairs.

I was on the third step before I heard my dad, from the other room, say: "Heather..."

It wasn't a question. He knew I was there.

"Urmph?" I mumbled, my mouth still full of chocolate. Frantically, I searched for a place to put all the candy. I was in my pjs and had no pockets. There was only one thing to do. I dumped 12 Hershey's Kisses into my Wonder Woman underroos.

"What are you doing?"

"Nurmphing." My heart was beating out of my chest. I'd done it. I'd lied. I was dead.

"Really? So, you didn't just sneak into the kitchen to get dessert you aren't supposed to have?"

That's the moment I was certain my parents could see through walls. I had no idea the angle of the couch and the placement of a mirror enabled them to watch my entire covert chocolate mission. They could have saved me from myself, but instead chose to find amusement in my actions. Nice.

Figuring I'd already lied and no more harm could come from another, I said: "Nooo," in a squeaky, totally guilty, and scared voice.

That's when the shadow of both my parents fell across the hallway. They were off the couch.

By the time they were in front of me, I'd pulled most of the Hershey's Kisses out of my underwear and was holding them in my outstretched hands like an offering, begging to be spared.

Not only did I get the disappointed look, but I got the "you lied" speech.

I hung my head.

Then my dad said, "Heather, I'll be up in a minute. You need to decide how many spankings you think lying deserves."

Miserable, I slowly turned around and climbed the stairs to my room, my mind racing.

A smart child (Brett), would know the answer to my dad's question immediately.

Zero spankings, please.

Not me. Nope. My complete inexperience with spanking worked against me.

Within minutes, my father entered my room and asked me how many spankings I'd decided upon.

To this day, I question my sanity.

I replied, meekly: "Well, I guess six because I'm six years old."

I sure did. SIX.

Only after I became an adult and my parents were hysterically retelling this story, did I learn it took everything my father had not to burst into a fit of giggles.

"Oh, really?!" I remember saying at the time. "I'm sure I wouldn't have noticed. I was too busy worrying about the fate of my ass. At least one of us found the situation amusing."

I didn't get six spankings. I barely got one or two.

The contact from my parent's spanking was never hard (just ask Brett). It was the IDEA that I'd earned a spanking that killed me.

Although, after giving it some thought, I'm more like my baby brother than I realized.

I'll still put my butt on the line for some chocolate.

Only now, I'm the one who has to say "it hurts me more than it hurts you."

My dad doesn't have to fit into my pants.