Teaching my child about forgery: A humorous parenting experience
In her column, Tracy shares experiences and lessons learnt as she navigates life and grows with her two boys. To share your views email Tracy on [email protected]
Image: File
There are certain parenting moments you want to bottle forever. Not because they are perfect but because they are so wildly human, so unintentionally hilarious, that you know one day you’ll miss them.
This week, I walked into one of those moments.
I had been working late. The kind of late where dinner feels rushed, your laptop refuses to close, and you’re mentally drafting tomorrow’s to-do list while brushing your teeth. My son, bless him, decided to take matters into his own hands. Homework? Started. Reading book? Read. The required parental signature to confirm said reading? Sorted.
Well.
Sort of.
He proudly presented his reading book to me with the confidence of a CEO presenting quarterly results. “I read, Mommy,” he announced. Now here’s the thing I know he reads. That’s one battle we’ve never had to fight. He devours books. So the reading itself was never in question.
It was the signature.
My signature.
Or rather… a small, enthusiastic, slightly wobbly tribute to my signature.
I stared at it. The shape was there. The rhythm was there. The dramatic swoop into the “S” almost there. The line-up wasn’t perfect though. If his teacher looked closely, she’d probably notice. If she glanced quickly? He might’ve gotten away with it.
And in that split second, I had to physically contain my laughter.
Because while it was adorable outrageously adorable it was also wrong. Legally wrong. Morally wrong. Technically “could land you in serious trouble” wrong.
And I mean, let’s be honest… who didn’t try signing for their mom at least once? Especially when she forgot to sign the homework the night before. I never signed to fake an absence though. My mother was that mother.
The “you are going to school unless you are genuinely on your deathbed” mother. Even the teachers knew it. So imagine the chaos if I had rocked up with a suspiciously convenient sick note signed by her. I would’ve been the one in trouble at home.
Anyway, back to my little in-house forger.
We sat down for The Talk.
“Baby,” I started, trying to sound calm and not amused, “this is wrong. You can get into serious trouble for copying someone’s signature. You could even go to jail.”
His eyes widened. “Why Mommy? It’s just writing, isn’t it?”
Being a boy mom teaches one extreme patience
Image: Mommy selfie
And there it was. The innocence. The genuine confusion.
“No baby,” I explained. “That’s called fraud. It’s when you trick someone by pretending to be someone else. It’s a lot like stealing… because that signature doesn’t belong to you.”
He paused. Processing.
“Ooohhh,” he said slowly. “So it’s like I took your signature and teacher would’ve thought it was you?”
Exactly that.
In that moment, I realised something important. Children don’t always understand the weight of actions not because they’re naughty, but because they’re logical in the most literal way. In his mind, the job was done. He read. The book needed signing. Mom was busy. Problem solved.
Efficiency level: impressive.
Ethics level: we needed to chat.
I told him there are grown-ups sitting in real courtrooms because of forged signatures. That pretending to be someone else, even with a pen, has consequences. He nodded seriously, the way children do when the world suddenly feels a little bigger and heavier than it did five minutes ago.
“I won’t do it again,” he promised.
And just like that, the chapter closed.
Or so I thought.
Because now he has developed a brand new fascination: creating his own signature. The concentration. The dramatic flicks of the wrist. The testing of capital letters. It is the cutest thing I have ever seen. The seriousness on his face as he experiments with loops and lines like he’s designing a global brand.
And maybe that’s the real takeaway.
Parenting isn’t about catching them out. It’s about catching the lesson before it grows into something bigger. It’s about laughing internally while still guiding firmly. It’s about remembering we once stood in those same little shoes, trying to figure out how the world works.
My son didn’t commit fraud that night.
He committed initiative.
We just redirected it.
And somewhere between the forged “S” and his brand-new signature experiments, I was reminded that raising a child is equal parts discipline and delight.
Mostly delight.