Tell Me a Story

“Mommy, will you tell me a pretend story?” “OK, who would you like the story to be about tonight?” I reply. “Spiderman,” my son says as he stretches his thin legs out comfortably in bed. I snuggle close to him and begin to deliver an impromptu fairy-tale based on my imagination. This is our bedtime ritual, and while it may not be the easiest thing to create intriguing stories on the fly, I wouldn’t change our routine for anything. The story develops as I borrow aspects of my day or week with portions of well-known children’s tales, but to keep it original, I add my own twirls and turns.

I watch my son’s reactions as I weave and entwine the tale in an effort to live up to his exceedingly high standards. There are moments when his look of pure wonderment stops me in my tracks. There are times when an expression of mild amusement makes me amplify my creative efforts. Then on the rarest of occasions, and often when I least expect it, I reach the pinnacle. On those nights, my son will leap to his feet with his hands in victorious declaration, and I know that my chronicle has received his highest honor. It is on these infrequent occasions that I understand why this nightly narrative has become habitual.

With each passing eve, I witness my son’s creative thoughts flourish, and lately he has taken to adding his own variations or input to my tales. He will inject his recommendation with such enthusiasm that I cannot refuse. However there is more to it than that. His thoughtful additions invariably improve my story which leaves me a little in awe to be honest. How is it that he possesses this talent at such a young age? But this is not for me to ask; rather my job is to pull his suggestions into my yarn effortlessly in pursuit of his ever-evasive triumphant dance.

“Quietly Spiderman begins to wrap his silky web around the feeble ankles of the Joker. His web is extremely strong but soft so the Joker doesn’t feel it until it’s too late and the Joker gets defeated once again.” My son places his arm around my neck and says. “That was a good story, mommy.” I thank him though secretly wishing that I had received his highest acclaim. I give him a kiss goodnight and realize once again why this nighttime ritual has persisted.  It is because every instant of it, from start to finish, quite simply feeds my soul.

Embrace Your MOMentum

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