this book. (The same book I'm referring to in this post.)
I read what she wrote about taking time for storytelling with your children.
Not the kind that's in a book, but spinning tales from your imagination, and letting the children have that opportunity, too.
I was intrigued and decided to give it a shot.
After dinner, we had baths (including the boys giggling about their bare buns and me chasing them to the bathtub with my thumb and forefinger ready to pinch, saying, "I like to squeeze 'em, squeeze 'em!").
Insert: giggling from the boys.
We straightened up.
Boiled water in the kettle until it began whistling.
Took it off the stove and turned off all the lights except for the Christmas tree and the twinklies on the mantle.
I told the kids to each grab their pillows and blankies and pick a spot.
Isaiah was on the floor.
Mia and Benji were each in their own chair.
Benji went first, and told two stories that they have heard a few times over about my childhood/adolescence.
One about being burned by hot applesauce right off the stove at 4, leaving huge red welts on my neck and chest.
And one about skinny dipping with two of my sisters, in broad daylight in Southern Utah, on the 4th of July.
They love the skinny dipping one.
When Benji was done, Isaiah said he didn't have one to tell, so we came to Mia.
I wish I could capture this scene because it was so funny.
She began to tell the same stories that Benji had just told.
But when she got to the part about the applesauce spilling, she said that it spilled.
And then she said, "And it went down [and her hands were going from her neck to her chest while she was saying this] to her breath?" And she looked at me with that question tone in her voice.
The boys are at the stage where they think stuff is funny because they catch on to what she's trying to say now.
They start giggling, and I start laughing.
I say, "Breast?"
And she agreed.
I'm still not sure if she was trying to referring to breasts or chest.
The jury is out.
But it was hysterical.
Then she went on in her very detailed, descriptive, expressive way of talking.
Then I spun quite the imaginative tale of a elf named Twinkletoes that came to visit some children on Christmas Eve, who were waiting for the father to come home from purchasing candy canes to decorate on the Christmas tree for Santa.
Then we drank hot chocolate.
And I read them our second Christmas story, which was called The Popcorn Tree.
These kids are so fun.
I love coming to know them as people, not just as my children.
It is a privilege beyond measure.
It was one of those nights where I felt I'd done parenting right.
I love those nights.