I remember being tucked up in bed, maybe I was five or six, and listening to my dad tell me a story about a boulder named Barry. I could be wrong, but I think he was reciting it from memory. Or making it up. Either way, I don’t recall there being a book in his hands and I’ve never seen or heard the story again since. I must ask Dad next time I see him. Continue reading Like a Rolling Stone
If you have children, you might occasionally lie in bed late at night with your eyes open, staring into the darkness, wondering what might become of them. What will they do? Where will they go? What will they dream about? What will they love?
You might also wonder if you’re doing a good job. Am I teaching them everything they need to know? Do they see my bad habits? Are they genetically disposed to follow in my footsteps? How do I know if they are truly happy? Maybe you’re simply hoping that they’ll go back to sleep, or that they won’t wake up, because you can’t handle one more night of ‘Dad, I need some water’ or ‘Turn the music back on’ at 3am.
There was once a time when I spent many hours of my life watching Extreme Makeover. Sometimes it wasn’t just Extreme Makeover, but shows that were even more extreme, like The Swan. Before you get the wrong idea, yes I did have better things to be doing with my time, and no I don’t think that women (or men for that matter) should judge their self-worth by holding themselves up to unachievable standards of beauty.
My two year old loves listening to stories. Most of the time we read a book, but sometimes he says ‘You tell me a story’, which means he wants me to make one up. So usually I’ll tell him a story about a boy who went on the bus or the train with his grandparents. In one version, they all visit the tall, tall tower in the city, where the window-cleaner waves at him from outside the building. In another, they go to the playground and he climbs to the top of a big slide before racing down on his tummy.
We lead quite the exciting life.