Recently I was reading in an early-childhood development book (can't remember which one it was) regarding the development of literacy in young children. The book described that between three and four years old, many children become fascinated with story telling. Finally an explanation to the delightful yet sometimes exasperating requests from Olivia of late.
Story time at our house (not the read from a book kind of story, but the told-out-loud, spontaneously thought up from Mommy or Daddy's brain kind of story) has morphed from a quick bedtime ritual squeezed in between prayers and goodnight kisses, to a constant, several-times-a-day plead from Olivia. Every time we are in the car; over breakfast, lunch, and dinner; anytime I sit down on the coach; or, basically anytime of the day, Olivia is begging, "Will you tell me a story?" It's comforting this phase serves a useful purpose, even though it is becoming increasingly difficult to come up with fresh material.
As we have run through Mommy's anthology of stories to tell, inevitably, I have come to rely upon accidents and funny incidents from my childhood, Mike's childhood, Olivia's early years, and even her grandparents' childhoods. I remember learning in my college English classes about story telling, its role in civilizations in teaching morals, giving warning, and shaping outlooks and belief systems. At such an impressionable age, I can't help but speculate, somewhat amusingly, about what mores I'm imprinting forever on Olivia's ethos by the stories she is hearing over and over again.
Some of the stories she enjoys (some of you family members will recognize these):
1. "the needle story" (Me stepping on a sewing needle as a preschooler and requiring surgery to remove it)
2. Several stories about Nana (my mother) when she was a girl, such as: older sister Mary cutting off her doll's hair and rolling her dolls down the hill, and the story of Mary's birthday party when Nana threw a temper tantrum over the new kitchen set
(This story has become even more vibrant since she was able to watch an old home-video of the actual temper-tantrum when we visited my parents this summer. I can totally understand why Olivia loves this story!)
3. Mike getting hit in the chin with a shovel as a young boy.
4. My childhood friend Emily playing at our house, sneaking in our cabinets, opening the salt canister, thinking the salt is sugar, eating a huge handfull, and then puking. (In another version of this story the culprit is actually shortening mistaken for frosting--which was it Mom??)
5. Several of my Dad's misadventures as a boy including the golf ball and bloody nose story, acorns at cars, and throwing rocks at a skunk. Since these stories have been past down to me from my grandmother, I especially question their authenticity. We all know what happens to a story after it is retold too many times.
So, what does it say about me, that these are the stories I remember the most out of all my childhood memories : ) And, what am I imprinting upon Olivia with these stories! It is funny to imagine her retelling these same stories to her children in another 25 or 30 years.
One story about her own early years that Olivia enjoys happened only last September or August. When we first purchased this house, there was a large hole left in our backyard where the previous owners had put their trampoline. We didn't want a trampoline and have since filled the hole and
layed grass over it, but for a few months we had a huge crater in our backyard. When this pheasant kept vising our yard last year, we enjoyed watching him--from a distance. One day, he got a little too close to the trampoline hole (probably trying to get the strawberries that were growing nearby) and fell in the hole and was stuck in there all day. Finally, in the late afternoon, Olivia and I got enough courage to sneak up to the edge of the hole and get a close up look at the large bird. Olivia loved this! An hour later, after speculating with Mike about how to help the trapped bird, with Olivia in my arms, we stood at the very edge of the hole watching the pheasant again. Our guard was down, when all of a sudden he let out a huge, shrill bird call and flew strait up at us! I was startled, so I screamed and ran back into the house with Olivia in my arms. The pheasant was gone, and we've never seen him again since then. I'm glad we gave him the motivation he needed to get out of his hole : )
And, I'm glad I have another story in my repertoire to tell Olivia.
.JPG)
.JPG)
