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Mom, tell me a story

Sunday, May 29, 2016

At bedtime my two youngest always ask for a story about when I was little. It seems I struggle a bit more these days than I used to in recalling stories from my past. They try to jog my memory by saying, "Remember the story when you hit that girl?" I tell them adamantly that I did not hit a girl. "I have never hit another human being, ever. I chucked a snowball at her face, yes, and I was mad at her, but I didn't hit her hit her. And she would've killed me had she gotten a hold of me. Luckily we became friends and laughed about it years later."

Then they go on, "Remember when you fell off your horse and landed on your back on a cow pie?"
"Yep, I remember that clearly. There was a big splat." I say as I bring the covers up and tuck them around their shoulders.
"Or how about the time you were in a greased pig contest?"
"I told you that one? Yeah, I almost had him. I doubt if we'd do that today. Probably not nice for the pigs."
"Or when you use to go haying with your dad and get a milkshake and sit on the hay bales on the truck?"
"I like the one about the goat trying to eat your name tag on your first grade field trip, when the name tag was still around your neck and your mom got into a tug of war with him."

That memory made me laugh out loud. I could still see my mom's face as she wrestled with the goat to get the name tag out of his mouth. She said to me, "Goats like to chew on anything!" as I was becoming nose-to-nose with him.

And that's where they got me to tell another story, drudged up from the vault of memories.

Moments like this remind me that putting down the fairy tale book in favor of a story about when you were young can make for some great storytelling. And I like to think that my kids can more easily envision me when I was like them.


All five of my lovelies with me and Jon in the background talking with Belén's grandpa-in-law

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