Every night, right after my four-year-old daughter crawls underneath her covers to head off for another night of sleep, I tell her a story. I make it up on the spot and then let it twist and wind and curve and cross wherever it take us. The results are mixed. Once in a while, something comes out that makes me think, “I better write this one down while I still remember it.” No matter the quality, though, my daughter has come to expect this routine to occur nightly. Doesn’t matter how late or early it is, where we are, if she’s nodding off or is wide awake. On the rare occasion when a story didn’t go down, there was big trouble.
Sometimes, my daughter will return the favor and tell me her own story. These are my favorite nights. If I’m patient enough and really listen, I never fail to learn something new about her and the way she feels and thinks and reasons and ponders. Other nights, we talk for a while about birthday parties or bikes or swimming or snacks or whatever is on her mind as she’s crawling into bed and then there is a story. It doesn’t matter if I have a headache, stomachache, or brain-ache. It doesn’t matter if I’m mentally exhausted and would rather watch butter melt than have to think up new characters and take them through new deeds in new lands with new beginnings and endings. It doesn’t matter; story time goes on as scheduled.
This has been our way for three years, and I can’t imagine not having this time. I know how lucky I am to have it. I don’t waste it. I don’t take it for granted. I might complain (mostly) silently some nights that I’m not feeling story time, but I still do it. I like that my daughter needs me in this way. I like that she’s come to depend on something that involves me to make her feel good and content. I like that when the story is really good, she tells me, and when it’s really lacking effort or creativity or I’ve slugged my way through it, she lets me know that, too. I like that she’s honest with me and there are no barriers or boundaries keeping her from being true with me. I like that her thoughts are innocent and broad and intentional and pointed and without a filter. I like that she pays attention and isn’t too proud to ask questions.
Having older kids (19, 17, and 14) has taught me this won’t always be the case. At some point, she will start heading off to bed without pomp and circumstance because she wants to be alone or has some thinking to do or she just doesn’t want to be around anyone, including me. At some point, she’ll keep more of her thoughts to herself where they’re well-guarded and safe. At some point, she’ll find that telling stories with her dad isn’t as fun as it used to be and it isn’t what girls her age do.
That’s why now, no matter the conditions or situation, telling my daughter stories is something I make a point of doing. I know there will come a day when she probably won’t remember all these nights of stories. But I will, and I’ll know that I got as much, if not more, from the experience.
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