Although I’m basically a moral person, I have been known to fib to the children. Not big fibs, mind you. I’m honest about life-threatening situations and how much I paid for my stylish new pair of shoes. But I like to keep them on the edge when it comes to things like the reality of superheroes and where babies come from.

Most of our communications occur in the car — during long commutes to and from family gatherings, school, and each and every event that involves a ball and athletic garb. Car rides are the reason the children still believe in Santa and are convinced that the tooth fairy no longer compensates for tooth loss because she declared bankruptcy and is living in a camper in Michigan.

The condition of my car has never mattered much to me. As long as the door opens when I pull on the handle, the windows roll up and down accordingly, and if the engine makes some sort of an attempt to start when I turn the key, I’m good to go.

But there was a time in my youth when I would have died for a Mazda RX7. I imagined myself in a sporty little rig that could zip me across town and corner like a dream. My hopes for acquiring an RX7 dimmed after the birth of our first son and the reality that he would need more necessities for every outing than the cargo area of the RX7 allowed.

My dream of the RX7 really pulled over to the side of the road when the second and third sons were born. And by the time the final test stick turned blue, announcing the imminent birth of our fourth child, the RX7 was nothing more than a distant thought that I put in the back of my mind along with gardening and world traveling.

Instead of something sporty, I’m stuck with a white Suburban, a hulk of a family vehicle. I use the term white loosely. Actually, the paint is believed to be white but with the bugs and mud, who really knows for sure. The windows are opaque with tic-tac-toe drawn in the steam, the handles are sticky, and if one were ever to discover anything remotely valuable inside my glove box, it would be an accident.

I’m doomed to cruise through town in a vehicle littered with toys, athletic devices, and dirty socks. Important papers are strewn about. The cup holders are used for little trashcans. Baseball bats, hats, gloves and shoes are shoved under the seats.

We drive to sports practices, games and, on occasion, run to the Sports Shoppe to pick up more sports paraphernalia. As any sports fan will tell you, avid sports players cannot simply show up to the field and expect to participate. Real players need nutrition, and a substantial amount of it. This requires trips to McDonald’s, Burger King, and on occasion a trip through A&W for a Triple Papa Cheeseburger, hold the mustard and double the fries. Most of which end up on the floor.

Still, the car is the family communications center. It’s where the children talk about their day, explore sibling rivalry, and when it’s done right, I get to catch up on some good gossip. On a good day last week, I learned that Tommy Jenkins’ mom shops too much and that Suzy Youngman’s mom does most of Suzy’s homework.

I also learned that young Jack Sprat said not only the A word but the B word the H word, and when he thought no one was looking, he held up a bad finger.

The chaos last Friday was the worst. One child screamed, “Look at my papers,” as another said, “Charlie has foot rot and his shoes smell like bad cheese.”

“Hey,” said Lucas, our guest rider for the day, “I just remembered, we don’t have school on Monday!” His announcement was quickly followed by a series of high fives and an abundance of cheers that I felt the need to squash.

“Turns out you do,” I replied with a straight face.

“We have school?” screamed Huey with disappointment.

“I hate it when they say we don’t have school and then we have school!” cried Lawrence.

“Don’t listen to her,” replied Lucas. “She once said they were postponing Christmas vacation due to a football game, and last spring she told us that there would be no summer because the moon was like all messed up and stuff.”

The RX7 may corner like a dream, but it could never offer me a platform for this much entertainment.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” Her e-mail address is clinch@atcjet.net.