Jake has recently become obsessed with story-telling. He asks for stories every night before bed and at naptime. Specifically "ocean stories" preferably involving big lady bugs and/or "elephant stories." If you tell him a story he will snuggle into your arms and his eyes will be wide with all the imagining in his little blond head.
I hardly recognize my high-energy, high-needs toddler in these moments, and for one of the first times as a parent I feel that don't-outgrow-this-ever tug.
I come from a family of storytelling. My dad is a storyteller. As kids we would request the same stories over and over. The one where Uncle Allan saved Dad from drowning. The one where he was learning to ride a bike. The one where he didn't fall down at the water-ski show but the snooty girl did.
I grew up without the chip that said you were only supposed to tell a story once. I remember as a little girl the first time someone criticized me because I was telling a story I had told before. I was perplexed. It was a GOOD story. Didn't they want to hear it over and over?
My siblings and I all gather around good story tellers like you would around a warm fire on a cold night. We request stories we've heard before. We get a little anxious when crucial details are left out or not poised correctly. It's perhaps my favorite thing about my family of origin. Family get togethers rarely involve big planned activities, they instead revolve around big meals and people sitting around the table afterwards listening to stories.
While training for the last marathon we ran, we briefly kept a blog called Ramsay Reruns. Distance running in my family always involves stories. And we rerun the same stories often. Distance running is also a source of story, and we vaguely attempted to catalog it in the blog. If you have a minute and click on over, you won't regret it. There are some treasures.
I suppose I love Jake's story-obsession because it reminds
me of my family. This is important when my son is basically my
husband's clone - except for his nose which can put up a Ramsay nostril
flare with the best of us.
For Christmas this year, we received a hand-carved Inuit sculpture from a family friend.
It's called The Storyteller. After making the trek,
from Portland safely tucked in a shoe, The Storyteller now sits on a
shelf in our living room watching us and taking in our daily activity.
He's very mysterious. I like him very much. I don't imagine he'll be telling us many stories, but I hope through the years he and Jake get to listen to dozens and dozens.
In other news. I've been trying to revamp my 2 year old cloth diaper stash via the DIY route. I've made one cover so far. I proudly suited Jake up in it and promptly texted a picture to Jacob.
Immediately after the photo. Jake started fussing and saying, "OUCH! OUCH! TOO SMALL!" He then tore it off and ran onto the porch.
So, yeah. In the words of the new phrase Jacob and Jessie's husband recently taught my son: