Every night, Peeper’s wind-down routine is the same: Last Play with a timer. Negotiations to get another Last Play. Teeth-brushing. Stalling to get out of teeth-brushing. Jammies. Book. Song.
And recently, after the lights are turned out, she has asked for a story.
***
When I was growing up, my dad loved to tell us kids stories. He’d invent characters and a plot then string them along in drawn-out dramas. He told us a scary tale about a ventriloquist’s dummy that came to life and a mummy who chased a bunch of explorers—but just because he wanted a cough drop.
He’d tell us these stories in the car, mostly. The tales kept us enthralled between point A and point B—but he’d impeccably time a cliffhanger to the moment he turned off the Shempmobile, his blue Dodge Caravan. He always left us wanting more.
It’s legend, in fact, that one summer he stretched a story about Fluffito, the world’s fluffiest dog, to last a road trip spanning a dozen states. He told about Fluffito’s adventures as he made his way up from local to regional to national to finally international fluffy dog competitions. But, unbelievably, he didn’t finish by the time we returned home.
Before I could hear the end of the story, in fact, my sister ruined the punchline:
“He’s not so fluffy!”
(Yes, we waited 3,000 miles for that.)
***
I can’t help but think of my dad’s storytelling when Peeper curls up on my lap, waiting for the tale to begin. They’re significantly shorter than my dad’s yarns, but Peeper listens just as raptly as I used to.
Every night Peeper asks for essentially the same story. She wants to hear about how Finn lost his bark. My challenge, then, is to invent a new twist every night—how his bark froze when he was walking to the North Pole, how a crab pinched his nose at the beach and made his bark disappear, how he jumped so high on the trampoline that his bark bounced out of his throat, how a wave from the river splashed into his mouth and made his bark too wet.
Peeper enjoys them all, I think. But every so often, I spin a winner.
“Oh, that’s a good one, Mom,” she’ll say as she slides off my lap and climbs into bed.
Maybe my stories will become longer and more complicated as Peeper grows older. I doubt I’ll ever tell an epic of the same caliber as Fluffito, but you can bet I’ll continue to imagine ways for Finn to lose his bark.
Tonight, and tomorrow night, and every night she asks me, I’ll begin. “Once upon a time…”
She also moves by whale tale splash, a special move she’s waiting to patent. While on her back, she lifts her entire body up to her shoulders and slams it back down on the ground. She swivels around like this and, by all measures, looks very proud of herself.
She’s pretty much obsessed with Big Sister. Peeper can do no wrong. Even when she is hitting Kiwi in the face with a pom pom or grabbing toys away, Kiwi stares and giggles.
Cookie sprinkles, a rented movie and a rainy hike: this is what our Valentine’s Day dreams are made of.
Walking under the Douglas firs, I reflected on how much has changed in a year. We have survived our share of rough transitions—from one to two kids, from the rock n play to the cosleeper, from not sleeping to sleeping sometimes.
Spring has come early to Portland. All week the sun has been out, sparking thoughts of running through the sprinklers, popsicle-sticky fingers and sipping wine in the afternoon sun.
Flying with kids is probably in the top 10 hardest things you do as parents, somewhere below labor but above having having The Talk about the birds and the bees.
