posted by Jessica Lynette on Romancing

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“Tell us all about when you were a little boy like us mommy!”

I smile. Because, beyond the obvious humor in such a statement, is the memory of a similar (though correctly gendered) plea to my own mother; “Tell us more stories. Tell us again about your pet monkey. Tell us about the footprints in the cement. Tell us about the eyebrows that got gum stuck in them. Tell us again… and again… and again.”

Stories are magnificent. They make the world a little bit more alive. And when it is parents telling their children stories from their own childhood it allows the child to enter into a very special place – a place of comfort, laughter, interest and realization. Stories are a way of connecting.

Our boys love stories. And, while I sometimes struggle with remembering specifics or thinking my stories interesting enough or worthy of retelling I am slowly realizing that they don’t care about those things. They don’t care how many details I have {or don’t have} to offer. They don’t care if the story is about a random memory of a favorite birthday gift as an 8 year old or if it is the twelfth time I have told them about my pets {all two of them}. What they love is that the story features me. In a world that revolved around me as a child, something they can relate to.

For the last couple of weeks we have snuggled in bed almost daily and I have told them stories about me as a child. Dozens of stories. Repeating favorite stories. Over and over. I have pulled out photo albums and they adore those too and I find inspiration in the memories triggered by a simple picture.
A few nights ago Paul was home and snuggled in with us. At the boys request he shared a few stories about himself and I shared more of my own stories.

Later that evening Paul said “Do you know you are drawing their little hearts closer to yours by telling them these stories?”

I hadn’t thought of it that way. I hadn’t considered that sharing my childhood with them was a way to romance them.  But seeing how they treasure the little bits of our childhood that we have shared with them – our baby blankets that our mothers saved, my black baby doll, a couple of my stuffed animals, some books from my childhood – I can see how they value these items that were once their parents. Not because the blankets are fun colors or especially warm but because the worn edges, the faded pattern and the holes scattered throughout were put there by their mommy or daddy.

And like the treasured items from our childhood the stories we tell them from our youth are becoming favorites – beating out storybooks that they once begged to be read over and over, they now plead for “Just one more story about when you were a little boy mommy, just one more, then we’ll go to sleep!“

Tags: children, family