“Mommy, tell me a story.”

I thought I would enjoy telling bedtime stories.  It seems like that would match my DNA composition, right?  Shouldn’t this be my most favorite, cherished part of the day?

Confession: I’m so blasted tired by the time we get to that point, that sometimes I nearly kiss them for disobeying and thereby letting me off the hook of the extended version of our bedtime routine.

But sometimes, when they have obeyed and my strength has lasted and the stars are perfectly aligned, I can tell a good lullaby.

“Mommy, tell me a Once Upon a Time.”

“Tell me about a bear and a girl, and the bear chases the girl.”

“And she’s afraid to go into the forest ever again.”

“But she’s brave, and she goes back to the forest anyway.”

“And then she’s safe forever and happy.”

He pieces his plot together before I get a word in edgewise.

Well, kiddo, I’m pretty sure you just told your own bedtime story.  And I applaud such independence and creative license.  Next time, let’s write it down.

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