So I've started telling the kids bedtime stories after our pajamas/brush teeth/ read books routine. I have fond memories of the stories my Grandma used to tell my cousins and me. I have dreams of finely crafting tales over the course of several years that are memorable and poignant. Stories with universal themes that will be remembered for decades... maybe someday I'll actually write them all down. Maybe publish them and retire on Disney movie royalties.
But so far they have all fallen much more into the 'ramblings of an exhausted father' category and not so much into the 'Making Lewis Carroll jealous any time soon' category. I love the *idea* of spontaneously weaving a bedtime story. I just suck at it.
I'll ask the kids who they want in the story, figuring that they'd be at least mildly interested if they got to pick the characters. So my first story was about a Lion and a horse. The next one was about a Bear and a pony, and the latest one was about Joey (whoever that is) and God.
Joey, as the story goes, never cleaned his room. At this point, my cousins are rolling their eyes because they know that I ripped this one straight from my deceased Grandma's storybook. But regardless of my plagiarism, Joey goes on to have a Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout experience, except instead of the story being masterfully brought to life by Shel Silverstein, it was mumbled out by me in a darkened bedroom, squinting at the ceiling, trying desperately to put together the basic storyline, let alone any details.
Eventually though, I did sputter through it to the grand finale,
"... and then by the time his room was clean, they had filled 14 garbage trucks FULL of toys. THE END and Good Night," I said.
"Wait Daddy, what about God?" Yordi asked.
"Oh... right... um, and God said, 'Good job Joey! I'm very proud of you' THE END."
"HEY! THAT'S NOT FAIR HE..."
"Ok Time for bed, Goodnight!" and I hustled out of there.
Grandma would have been so very, very proud.