Every mother has had parenting moments she's not proud of. Usually it involves a time she meted out the wrong discipline or that which was too harsh. A few years ago, when my son was in high school, I did something awful. It was insincere, cowardly and downright deceitful. I'd like to own up to it now and thereby hope that the universe will grant me some sort of absolution. But God help me, I think I'd still do the same thing today.

My husband and I were invited to a dinner party. To protect the innocent, and for obvious reasons, I will alter all of the identifying circumstances. This gathering was one of those events we had to attend-no getting out of it-but thankfully it was one of those obligations that would not repeat itself. Driving to the soiree, we bemoaned the fact that living in civilized society requires this kind of thing, but we resolved to make the best of it.

The dinner was delicious, actually. It was served in several courses. The conversation of the eight or so couples assembled wasn't as scintillating as the Algonquin Roundtable, but it was pleasant enough. As dessert was served, I began to mentally flog myself for dreading the event and thought that, despite my worries, it hadn't been so bad at all. But very soon, this get-together turned into something fit for a Stephen King novel.

After dessert, the attendees remained assembled around the table at least 45 minutes. After about 20 minutes, George and I exchanged frequent glances. My husband is not a party person to start with. Worse yet, the way the dining room table was configured, we were trapped against a wall. There was no way to get up from the table without crawling over two other couples. We were beginning to feel like caged animals.

Finally, after a seemingly interminable length of time, the host and hostess indicated that we were finished and the crowd broke up with laughter and good cheer. "Finally," we thought... "we can get out of here." It was almost 11 pm. We had been seated at that table for almost four hours! The hostess's voice brightened, and she said she had a surprise for us. She waved us toward her living room.

George and I approached the room with curiosity. We got to the door and, to our horror, there was a roomful of card tables assembled with a deck of cards on each one. The hostess announced joyfully; "we're going to play Whist!"  We couldn't believe our ears. In terms of pastimes, card-playing is number 786 on our list of things we'd like to do. We'd rather clean the garage, bathe the dog or pass a kidney stone. It was just too dreadful to imagine. I was panic-stricken. I glanced at George and the look on his face was exquisite. He looked at me with eyes that pleaded, "Help!"

I needed a plan-and fast. Then inspiration hit me.

I asked where their powder room was and excused myself. I grabbed my purse, and beat it to the bathroom.  I whipped out my cell phone and called for rescue. I phoned our son at home. "Eric," I said softly. "I don't have time to explain now-listen carefully. Dad and I are at a party. We are bored out of our minds. We need an excuse to get out of here and not hurt anyone's feelings. I will pay you $20 to call my cell phone in five minutes so I can pretend we're needed at home. Please!  I'm desperate." Our son broke out in peals of laughter. He was willing to sell himself out for a "wallet photo" of Andrew Jackson.  That's m' boy!

Back to the living room, I whispered to George that salvation was at hand and to play along. Right on schedule, my phone rang.  I answered, 'Hello!"  Eric said, "Don't forget; you owe me 20 bucks," and then he hung up. I kept talking with a performance that would earn me an Oscar. I feigned a concerned look and said, "OK.  We'll be home right away." An excuse was offered, apologies were given and we were soon in the car. I believe that my husband was never more in love with me than at that moment.

Now here's the parenting dilemma. I had just committed a sin. I lied. Not only that, I had enlisted my son in the deception. My behavior was indefensible. Period. I have pulled this stunt only once in my life. But, heaven help me, I'd do it again under exactly the same circumstances. 

Morality has its gray areas. Is it right to tell a wee lie to preserve someone's feelings? How about if it demonstrates a bad example to one's child?  

The next day, Eric and I talked over this unusual incident. He clearly absolved me of my guilt, and said he understood my motives and that I should forget the whole thing--except the $20. I got my purse and paid my bill.

When I am faced with a moral quandary, I try to apply the Golden Rule: treat others as I'd like to be treated. I decided that if I were hostess of a party that had turned into a nightmare for my guests, I would wish they would manufacture some face-saving pretext to skedaddle, too, and rescue me from myself. 

As for Eric, honesty is a value he has grown up with, of course. I didn't even encourage the Santa Claus thing because I thought it was important that he always hear the truth from me. Did the Dinner Party Rescue leave him with any lasting damage? I wondered.

I just called my son, now a college student, from his room. I reminded him of this episode, told him I was blogging about it and asked him, "Did this make you think less of me as a mother?"

 "No." he said.

 "Thanks, Eric," I said.

 Then, as he walked away, I thought to myself, "Now get me the garden hose. My pants are on fire."