Being home means fewer stories

One-year-old Nicky and three-year-old Jacob were snuggled against me in the rocking chair. I had finished reading a book about dinosaurs by Sandra Boynton for the umpteenth time. Nicky had roared at the mean red dinosaur every time and Jacob liked the happy one called Hey Ho Howdy. I like Boynton books. The print is large enough that I don’t need my reading glasses, plus they don’t talk down to little kids.
Nicky giggled and shoved his pacifier into my mouth as Jacob demanded another story. I gave the pacifier back to Nicky and told Jacob to go get another book. He said no and demanded that I “read a story with you mouf” instead.
At first I didn’t understand what he was asking. Then I guessed that he meant to tell him a story instead of reading one. I went through my entire repertoire of stories. After telling about the three little pigs, Goldilocks the burglar, the old woman who swallowed the fly and any other fairy tales I could remember, I resorted to asking Jacob what he wanted to hear about. Nicky had long since lost interest and wiggled down out of my lap.
Jacob asked for a story about a wolf that ate a worm. Easy enough. With Jacob’s subject matter and my imagination, we passed almost an hour in cuddly closeness. I told stories about Jacob and dragons, bad monkeys, more dinosaurs and anything else he wanted. I would have talked forever just to hold him close. I vowed to commit more stories to memory before our next visit.
It won’t be that long before these days of holding little boys in my lap are but a memory. Already, six-year-old Emma is too big for fairy tales whispered in her ear. Thankfully, she is not too big to wear frilly princess dresses while asking her brother to “take the skin off” a dead frog they found so they can see what’s inside of it.
We are home now after almost a two-week visit. I can still feel the weight of little boys in my arms. I can feel residual slobber on my chest as Nicky insisted on storing half-eaten cookies and plastic lizards down the front of my shirt. I can still hear Emma showing us how much noise her new tap shoes can make on a hardwood floor. I am nursing a cold thanks to Nicky’s fondness for sharing his pacifier and anything else that had been in his mouth.
I look through the photographs and remember the hours spent watching the three children. I love how Emma would spoon-feed Nicky and Jacob, even though they were both capable of feeding themselves. One minute she is all grown up, the next she is very much a little girl. We took lunch to school for her one day. She told us all about the cartoon character that was the prize in her Happy Meal. I don’t think there was anything she didn’t know about it.
We watched Jacob in his first gymnastics class. At first he was shy, but then he had a good time. We marveled at his imagination at home when he took one of his mother’s colanders, turned it upside down, plastered Play-Doh on the bottom and sat on it like a hen brooding her eggs. After awhile, he turned the colander over and scraped out the bright pink “Cheetos” he had made. Then he rearranged the Play-Doh and did it again.
I loved rocking Nicky to sleep even though his mom insisted that he didn’t need to be rocked. Maybe he didn’t, but I couldn’t resist one more chance to rock a baby.
I remember how all three children would light up when their mom got home from work. They glommed onto her like magnets. She would cuddle them, while telling us about her day. It makes my heart glad to know that she is such a good mother.
I haven’t told any stories about a wolf eating a worm for more than a week. I haven’t read any dinosaur books. Nobody has shoved a slobbery pacifier into my mouth. No toys have been stored in my shirt. No little girls have wondered what the inside of a frog looks like. All I am left with are memories and the knowledge that the children will have changed by the time we visit again.[[In-content Ad]]