I lied. Id told myself I never would lie to him, but I did.

The first time I felt bad, but it gets easier. Each time, every day that the lie passes my lips, I squirm just a little less, sometimes I barely notice the untruth unless someone overhears me and gives me a questioning look. Today, however, it seemed even more blatant than usual, and I even tried a different tactic before the bold face lie came across my lips.

I was baling hay, and my little boy was sitting on the greasy floor playing with his toys. I use the term boy, loosely. A more accurate description would be a dirt-shaped likeness of my little boy. The air conditioner wasnt keeping up on the blazing sun through the glass, and sweat was making mud trails down both of our faces.

Wed been in the tractor all day and he had just asked for a snack. Id pulled out our lunch bag and handed him his favorite spicy crackers (spicy Tabasco Cheez-its) and thats when he asked the dreaded question.

Are my hands clean?

I dont know where he learned that certainly not from me.

I support the 5-second rule even 10 seconds if the snack is really tasty. I consider my pocket knife eater-friendly after a brisk brush across my jeans; and unless there is poison, pesticides, or manure on my hands, I consider them field-eating clean.

The house rules involve a bit more soap, but until John Deere starts installing sinks beside their buddy seat, most anything in the field goes.

For the last several months, anytime my little guy goes to eat anything a chip, a cracker, a bowl of green beans the first thing out of his mouth is are my hands clean? Grrr.

At first I would tell him the truth: No, they are filthy dirty! But then he would refuse to eat until they were clean. Quite a tall order when one is in a piece of machinery all day.

I tried asking him what he thought but he wouldnt have it he had asked me a question, and he expected an answer. I tried nodding as it seemed less like lying than actually verbalizing yes but no. He wanted a spoken yes or no answer.

So now, Im looking at my little boy, sweat and dirt matting his hair back against his cheek. Grease, mud and several unidentified substances covered his little hands that were out held for my inspection. His innocent little eyes looked up at me and asked again, Are my hands clean, Momma?

I swallowed hard, before smiling brightly at him, Yup, sweetie, they are.

Brianna Walker writes columns about farm and rural life for the Blue Mountain Eagle.