I made pancakes for breakfast the other day. Bean was excited, but on his way to the table he bumped his elbow.
“Oh, Mommy! This is gonna be the saddest supper in all the land.”
Bean loves stories. For the past month or so, he’s been begging me to tell him stories several times a day: every time he sits on the toilet (charming), and when he goes to bed. I’ve become a pro at thinking up riveting plots on the spot. But my favourite part of this new story-telling phase is that he’s starting to tell his own stories. Usually they are very sweet. Yes… usually.
Picture the following, told at high volume, with great enthusiasm. Also, Bean is a close talker, so he was right up in my face.
Mama I’m gonna tell you a story. This is gonna be the baddest story in all the land. It’s a… pushing down story! Okay. Okay okay.
Once upon a time there was… A GUY!! And another guy. Aaaaand… he PUSHED him down into the deep… dark… HOLE! And then he…. threw all the sand and dirt and trucks in and rode away on a horse and NEVER came back forever. And then he went to a windmill and [insert intense toddler sound effects and hand gestures] …. and… ate him all up!
Me: Um, okay. Wait. Who ate what?
Bean: The horse!
Me: I… I’m not sure…
Bean: It’s a bad story. It’s a pushing down hitting story.
Should I be worried?