Maeve has invented a new game. She was playing with Daddy in the garage, and there were no books at hand, but she wanted to be read to. So she asked him, Daddy, tell a story about the garage. And he indulged her.
Do you know what happens when you indulge a two year old with a story? You are deluged with requests for more. Daddy told Maeve so many stories that night that he was hoarse by bedtime. She dragged him from room to room, to help her think of more topics. Daddy told stories about toilet paper, Christmas tree lights, paper towels, the bathtub, and corn flakes, plus many, many more.
I liked it when he inserted a brief moral into the tale, like "...the potty is the happiest when Maevie sits on it!" or "... and that's why we don't play with toilet paper." His stories were all very short and pithy, sometimes funny, and not usually too fly-away imaginative. He stuck to the facts. If I were telling a story about toilet paper, I might be tempted to say it was made by fairies or some such, but Daddy's stories begin and end in reality.
Right now she doesn't want me telling any stories, it's a Daddy thing. Which is fair enough, because I'm basically the only one she wants reading to her, and will take books away from Daddy to give to me. So I'll take it. But I'm willing to bet that now that the weekend is over, I will be getting some story requests, too. I'll let you know if she likes my stories as much as Daddy's.
|Daddy, tell a box story.|