Telling Stories

My life has been filled with stories, lately. Stories about families and holidays, stories with friends in them, stories we tell Cambrie, and, most definitely, stories to tell you. The problem is that, whereas sometimes the stories set up camp in my mind, words and descriptions floating around and demanding to be written down, many many other times they just slip quietly in and out of my life. During those quieter, less demanding times, it takes a little more discipline for me to sit down and commit a story to words.

But discipline myself I shall. And today’s story will be about nothing less than stories themselves. Let me illustrate…

“What do you want your story to be about, today?”

“Cambrie an’ baby Evelyn! And Nana’s house!”

“Okay. Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Cambrie. One summer she went to go visit her Nana in Utah, and at her house was little baby Evelyn…”

It started over Thanksgiving. While Patrick was trying to get Cambrie to sleep in my dad's house and a new bed one night, he decided to try telling her some stories instead of reading her a book. Since that moment, book reading immediately before naps and bedtime has all but disappeared. Cambrie will ask us to “read her a story” constantly—in the car, sitting at the table, while I’m folding laundry, and of course in bed.

I don't have pictures of us telling stories, but plenty of Cambrie, us, and books.

Since Patrick and I have slight limits on spur-of-the-moment storytelling, we usually ask Cambrie for some sort of guide… “What do you want this story to be about?”

Here’s a sampling of what we're given to work with:

“Cambrie climb a-apple tree!”

“Goggy…doggies. A-story ‘bout doggies!” (Oh yes, it is heart wrenching that she’s already correcting her little baby words into grown-up words!”)

“Cambrie an’ Pincess!”

“Bob.” (??? This is usually followed by, “What? You mean ‘ball’?” “Nope.” “Umm, ba.. ba..bowl? Like the soup you had for lunch?” “No. Bob.” Patrick’s method is then to tell something like the Three Billy Goats Gruff and say one of the goats is Bob. *shrug* It works.)

“Cambrie an’ mommy a go to store, an’ daddy a go to store, too, an’ a go to libee! [library]”

“Uncuh Andy an’ Aunt Leeanne an’ a-Yumi a-baby Melody a-Dampa Cottle a Kisten at a-Dampa Cottle’s house!!”

“Farm. An’ cows.”

“A big kitty an’ small kitty an’ mommy kitty an’ daddy kitty.”

“Honey. An’ Bob.” (That one became Bob the Bumblebee.)

And my all-time favorite: [Leaning over toward me, poking her finger at my forehead] “That!!” “…my, forehead?” “Uh-huh.” Oh boy.

Little Critter books are high literature. Our stories have a lot to live up to.

There are actually many advantages to the storytelling. After a while, books like “Go, Dog, Go” and “One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish” begin to wear on mommy and daddy. Telling stories does require brainpower, but a kind of very silly, very low-pressure brain power that probably needs a little more exercise anyways. The variety is great, and the stories are apparently something both mommy and daddy can tell satisfactorily.

It’s also nice to tell stories about “a little girl named Cambrie” doing all the things we want her to do, like sharing, and saying “Okay Mommy” or “Okay Daddy” when she’s asked to do something, and trying new and difficult things over and over again, and being brave when things are sad or scary.

But the best part is the listener. I’ve never been able to keep Cambrie's attention as closely as when I’m telling a story. It baffles me, too, because there are no pictures, no rhymes, and hardly any plot to speak of. And still, we’ll both be lying in her bed, and there she’ll be, snuggled on her pillow, blanket pressed against her cheek, big eyes staring steadily at me and taking every word in. She hardly ever interrupts, and at the end of every story, her face will brighten up and she’ll say, “Read other story, mommy!” And so I’ll tell another, about playing with monkeys in the trees, or soaring through the clouds on flying horses, or a little dog family on a picnic in the woods, or a princess finding a giant tree with a staircase to the sky.

This is our little girl, and it won’t be much longer that she’ll be drinking in every word we say without question or disdain. I hope she remembers the stories, though, and how we loved to tell them. And I hope I never stop trying to share my words and stories with her.