“Read me a story.” Beth (3) smiled.
Beth snuggled close to Emily (5). Emily snuggled close to Eric (8). Eric snuggled close to Ken.
Eric was wearing his flannel Transformer PJs, which Santa had brought for Christmas. The girls were wearing matching pink nightgowns with a decal of Minnie Mouse on the front. Ken was wearing his nighttime t-shirt and shorts. Everyone cuddled together on Mom and Dad’s big comfy bed.
“Tonight’s story is Fancy Nancy.” Ken said as he cracked open the pages of a pink book. Emily and Beth leaned closer and reached out their fingers to caress the texture of the pages. Eric rolled his eyes. He would have preferred something about spaceships or ninjas.
Our bedtime routine is simple. Jammies. Teeth. Stories. Kisses. Sleep. Even though all of the steps are important, Stories are the keystone on our schedule. They have been for years.
We started reading stories to Eric the day he was born. Back then, it was Goodnight Moon and Pat the Bunny. Ken and I would take turns swooshing on the glider in the baby’s room with the lights dimmed as Eric drifted off to sleep. It was the most enchanting moment of our day.
We repeated the routine when Emily popped into the world three years later. I read her first story before she left the hospital. I was dressed in a hospital robe and Emily was swaddled tightly in a pink blanket. Eric, three at the time, had come to meet his baby sister and had brought a book about racecars to share with her.
When Beth was born, Eric (five at the time) and Emily (two at the time) each brought a book for their new sister to read. Beth practically earned a magna cum laude in story time before she completed her first twenty-four hours of breathing.
I suspect that I’ve read every children’s book there is to read. I’ve done The Cat in the Hat and the sequel, The Cat in the Hat Came Back. I’ve practically memorized The Bear Snores On. And, I know more about the adventures of Winnie the Pooh than your average forty (ahem) year old attorney is expected to know.
A few weeks ago, I roamed into Beth’s room to do some de-cluttering. Under her bookshelf, I found a tattered copy of That’s Not My Bunny. My mind drifted back to a blustery autumn evening when Beth and I read “Bunny” together for the first time. I could see her stroking the Bunny’s ears and tails and giggling at every turn of the page.
Was it time to pass Bunny on to another baby, I wondered. I turned the book over in my hands and felt the familiar smooth cover. Not today, I decided. There were still too many memories leaking out.
Not too long after that, our family rediscovered the public library. We were there to attend a Boy Scout event for Eric. As we paraded through the rows of books, Emily’s eyes grew to the size of saucers. Beth squealed. Even Eric, despite trying to maintain the dignity of his uniform, bounced as he walked.
Story time is a powerful time of connection for our family. The quiet evening ritual allows us to release the cares of the day and enjoy the comfort of a soft bed. It relaxes our minds and teases our imaginations.
Now that Eric is in the second grade, he is capable of reading to himself. He explodes through chapter after chapter of the Jedi Apprentice and Magic Tree House series. Yet every night, after his teeth are scrubbed, he climbs under the covers, huddles close to his sisters and listens to Dad read.
"Then Fancy Nancy does a double flip.” Ken said as he pointed to the story’s hero. Beth and Emily gasped. Eric rolled his eyes….again. I smiled.
And as the children nuzzled closer to their Daddy, I sat quietly among them, feeling their warmth and remembering the hundreds of stories we have shared.
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