Tell Us A Story

“Tell us a story about when you were little, Mommy.”  

This has become a new and often spouted request from my little ones as we drive from point A to point B on warm summer mornings.  Sometimes the questions are altered a bit to include other family members. . .

Tell us a story about Poppy.  Tell us a story about Ashley.  Tell us a funny story from when you were a kid.

As I steer the car over the hills and through the valley’s of Amish country I reach into the recesses of my memory in an attempt to recall snippets from a childhood that feels so long ago.  The chatter from the back of the car quiets as I retell stories that I’m certain I’ve told before.

I tell them about the time when I was no older than 7 and I saw my Dad getting into the car.  Can I come with you?! I begged.  My Dad smiled and said I could.  I tell them about how we didn’t wear seat-belts then like we do now.  I talk about how I climbed into the car (a pink Thunderbird–yes, we were cool.) next to my Dad and about how he turned toward me and looking at me with a grim face.  I told them about how he looked at me in the eye and spoke to me in a very serious tone as he launched into a diatribe about the importance of wearing a seat-belt while in the car. I can imagine my big sevenish-year old brain took in this information in all it’s seriousness and assisted my Dad as he wrapped the seat-belt around my body, feeling very grown up.  I faced forward as my Dad turned the engine on the Pink Beast and prepared for a fun, impromptu trip with my Dad.

At this point I glanced in the review mirror and saw three smiles anticipating the finale to my story.

Poppy started the car and while I waited for him to back out of the driveway to leave he pulled the car forward to park it in the garage.  He was never planning to go anywhere, he was only pulling the car into the garage.

I smile as the back of the car erupts with laughter as they envision their grandpa playing a trick on their Mom.

Tell us another one, they beg.

We continue to drive through the hills, passing pastures filled with cows and horses grazing in open fields wet with morning dew.  The sun reaches into the car and lights the faces of little ones who listen intently to stories they want to hear. I tell them about how I used to play a game with my little sister called, “I’m Going To Run To The Basement, Let’s See How Much Of My Room You Can Clean Before I Get Back”.  Again, they laugh as they hear about how I wisely left a stopwatch in my room and disappeared to the basement to watch a t.v. show, while their aunt, four years my junior, slaved away at picking up the disaster area the doubled as my room.

More laughter from the backseat as they envisioned their Mommy being a cruel big sister.

Another!  Another!!  

I smile and I retell the story of a shopping trip at the mall with my sister and my Mom.  After splitting up for an hour my sister and I were waiting for my Mom to meet us as the designated spot before we would eat lunch together at noon.  My sister and I were standing together when we noticed our Mom riding up the escalator toward us, sandwiched by strangers on every side.  When my Mom looked up and saw her daughters standing and waiting, she raised her voice and her arms in a frantic wave, SUMMER! ASHLEY! OH MY GOSH! IT’S BEEN SO LONG SINCE I’VE SEEN YOU!  I’VE MISSED YOU! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S YOU!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?

Charlie and Chanelle roared with laughter imagining their Mom and aunt being embarrassed by their grandmother and Meadow laughed because she does anything her siblings do.

My stories continued while little ears listened and engaged with smiles and prompts, More! and More! reminding me once again that our stories matter.

Right now, we are writing their story.  Each and every day we are collecting the stories that Charlie and Chanelle and Meadow will tell and retell to their kids, their friends.  The way we are spending our days now will be the building blocks for the way they write their stories later and that thought thrills me and scares me at the same time.

Certainly, there are the stories like yesterday when their Mom lost their mind because she couldn’t get the DVD player to work.  (I did apologize later–it was hot, I was tired.) Or, as Charlie often reminds me, if we made a list of all the mistakes you make, we couldn’t fit it on the living room wall. (which is a massive wall, by the way.) Seriously, mayo in the pantry and peanut butter in the fridge and laundry placed in the washer but never started are never forgotten.

It’s true, some of the stories will be better than others.  What I realize, though, is the stories that I tell and retell aren’t the big ones.  Not the trip to Disney or the vacations spent on the beach.  The stories that make up life are the little ones that go unnoticed at the time, but later, end up being the most memorable.

Certainly, we’ve got lots of tiny unremarkable moments. . .

We’ve got mornings at the bike trail where siblings act as siblings act. . .

We’ve got creek stories. . .

That end in an hour long session of picking weeds out of Taza’s fur. . .

We’ve got the discovery of new places. . .

And a 3-Year Old that dresses up like a bee once a week. . .

And summer nights of exploration. . .

And fights with the bee-sibling. . .

And stories of dance and play. . .

And weather that takes out breath away. . .

And we’ve got stories with friends. . .

And quiet, simple stories that our only ours. . .

Every day our stories are being written and none too small to be remembered.  I can’t wait to hear them retell their stories.  I hope they find joyful ones among the irrational mom moments and often over-tired parent moments.  I hope that hold onto the good and remember the little, mundane moments that truly are the makeup of their history.

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Have a lovely weekend, Friends. . .