No one likes a six-year-old Christmas liar.

The only time I ever had perfect attendance at school was during the first grade. The first grade was also the year I lied at Christmas.

December 13 is Saint Lucia Day. I'm not going to pretend I know very much about the actual holiday and how it is celebrated in Sweden or wherever else it is celebrated. I can only tell you how Ms. Nelson's First Grade Class attempted to celebrate this holiday tradition.

Ms. Nelson told our class that on Saint Lucia day the oldest girl would get to wear a green wreath on her head and walk around the classroom passing out cookies. I desperately wanted to be that girl. I was six. My birthday is in April.

We interested girls gathered around her desk trying to figure out who was the oldest. I declared that I was.

"Aren't you six?" she asked.

"Noooo, I'm seven. Definitely the oldest girl here."

"When is your birthday?"

"April 13."

"Weren't you born in 1983?"

"Me? Nope, 1982. I'm seven."

Looking back, I realize Ms. Nelson must surely have known my real age. Or she could have easily looked it up. Yet I insisted, and she gave in. I wore the wreath and passed out those cookies and was immensely pleased with myself.

Of course eighteen years later I still can't see a picture of the blond Saint Lucia without cringing and feeling like a guilty idiot.