My Daughters, the Storytellers

I love my daughters' rambunctious imagination. It reminds me of when I was young and spent innumerable hours stretching my imagination with my little brother. It was such imagination that led me into writing, perhaps my daughters will be the ones to finish my equally innumerable, and unpublished, stories.

However, much to my chagrin, the girls' imagination has gotten the better of them, specifically Brie who returned home from school one afternoon with an enormously tall tale.

It was a Wednesday afternoon that Brie hopped into the car after a long day at school and proceeded to tell me under inquire that not only had her class gone fishing, but camping and that her delightful teacher had caught a whale! My six-year-old also proceeded to tell me that the entire first floor of the school building had flooded and that everyone in her class was overcome with one feisty angst moment after another and was promptly sent to the Principal's office. Everyone in her class but her own iconic angelic self apparently.

I pressed my lips together, and went between shaking my head in bafflement and nodding in wonder, one eyebrow lifted in amazement as Brie continued on about the sumptuous feast served at lunchtime; turkey and gravy, biscuits, rice (like grandma makes!), pancakes and waffles (her particular favorite) chocolate cake and chocolate pudding, and much more chocolate that got lost in her dreamy, salivating murmuring, milk, punch, soda pop, grapes, and grilled cheese.

By this point my mouth was hanging agape, equally watering, and my brow deeply furrowed, wondering if it was possible that school cafeterias had changed that much since I once was forced to indulge in their more-than-likely-to-be dripping in grease food items and limp vegetables.

I must say that I was pretty impressed with Brie's story-telling. I exclaimed over her obviously wonderful time spent at school, minus everyone being sent to the Principal's office for disorderly conduct, of course, and then listened humorously as her younger sister; four-year-old Emma, not about to be outshined, proceeded to expound the intricate details of her day at preschool. Including everyone but her being sent to the Principal's office for some unruly behavior or another that included trying to feed her to sharks, alligators or leaving her in the bat-filled cave out in the school's backyard.

Perhaps I would be more surprised if I wasn't equally as bad about tall-telling. My girls get it honestly, after all, when they had equally finished with their tales, both inquired upon my day which I explained was filled with my having banished the Knot Fairy from all our combs (she is such a troublemaker!) playing a round of cards with the dog and cat (dratted cat always wins!), getting the hamsters to help with the housework (they are perfect dusters) and having tea with the Dinosaur Tree in the backyard (such a delightful neighbor).

Who needs Mother Goose in our household?

Previously published in the Daily Advocate 2007.

Bethany J. Royer-DeLong is currently entrenched at home fighting the good war against the gimmes and the I-don't-wannas. She blogs recklessly, as all mothers of children under the age of five should, and has been working on that "supposed" great American novel, times a dozen. You can visit her at motherofthemunchkins.blogspot.com and email her at broyerdelong@yahoo.com