Tell Me A Story About You

Recently, Will has departed from his typical bedtime routine of three books read aloud--those beautifully illustrated, short, kids-section-at-the-library books at bedtime--and he has found an interest in chapter books, poems, and auto-biographies.

Let's start with those chapter books.

Really. Long. Chapter books.

And although I at first shuttered at the thought of reading Captain Underpants (hand-me-downs from a friend and there are no chapter breaks!) I am now perfectly content because I hid Monsieur Underpants and dug out all of my favorites as a child--we are nearly finished with Judy Blume's Superfudge, and I have loved reading aloud every word--even having smile-inducing flashbacks to some of the voices my first grade teacher, Mrs. Bennett, used when she read it to our class so many years ago.

#nostalgia

(I did have to censor a certain part concerning the truth about Santa.)

Because there are no pictures to look at, I find instead that Will is looking at me.

He watches my mouth move. And occasionally he stops me to point out that my teeth are a bit yellow.

"If you slept past 6 a.m. on any given day, I wouldn't have to drink so much coffee and my teeth might be whiter," is what I want to say, but instead I remind him it's okay to notice people's flaws, but not okay to tell them.

One chapter is all he gets, as they are quite long, but lately he has begged for one more little thing to be read, and so we found my old Shel Silverstein books. I am in charge of picking the one poem we get to read (to receive power from a four-year-old is divine), and I have a hard time selecting my favorite old poems from Shel. Ickle Me Pickle Me Tickle Me Too, anyone?

Post-poem, we turn out the lights and he immediately demands, "Tell me a story about you!" He picks the age, and I rack my brain for something even remotely interesting that happened when I was seven.

Or thirteen.

Or twenty-two.

(I have a particularly difficult time finding stories when he gives me the age of sixty-eight.)

It's a random little routine, but one that works for him.

Last night, after reading about Fudge's new bird, Uncle Feathers, I selected Shel Silverstein's poem, The Bridge.

“The bridge will only take you halfway there, to those mysterious lands you long to see. Through gypsy camps and swirling Arab fair, and moonlit woods where unicorns run free. So come and walk awhile with me and share the twisting trails and wondrous worlds I've known. But this bridge will only take you halfway there. The last few steps you have to take alone.”

I closed the book. I was all kinds of choked up. 

"You know how you always ask me to tell you stories about me? And I share with you all of the things I've done and the places I've been? Those stories will only get you halfway there. You have to take the rest of the journey alone, and experience things so that they are stored in your memory and you can share them one day." 

"Why do I have to go alone?" he asked. 

"Because I can't hold your hand forever," I said. 

Little tears were forming in my eyes and that lump was in the back of my throat and I was picturing sending him off to kindergarten, high school, college, and releasing his little hand from mine and sending him into the great big world waiting to hand him his next adventure.

It was a moment. I was having a moment. It was beautiful.

He quickly took both of his hands, put them over his eyes, and paused. 

"What are you doing?" I asked. 

"PEEKABOO!" he screamed. 

He laughed.

"Poems are dumb," he declared. "Tell me a story about you!" 

Moment over. Clearly, he's not ready for me to release that hand just yet either. Back to the routine.

-Kristin