she asks the same question every single day. mama, will you tell me a story about when you were little?
some days i'm tired and i don't want to tell the stories. i don't want to repeat the same things over and over again. i ask why? why do you want to hear that one again? she says, because i like them.
she loves the one about the mouse getting in my shoe.
"one morning when i was getting ready for school i saw a mouse run across the room. this was not unusual because we lived in the country amongst many fields, enter field mice. i grabbed my totally awesome reebok high top tennis shoes and jumped on grandma's bed to put them on. i crammed my foot in but for some reason it wouldn't go. i turned the shoe over and patted it over my lap. out came a tiny mouse in my lap. that's when i screamed to the point of hysteria and grandma slapped me to bring me out of it. "
she giggles her belly giggle with her white baby teeth gleaming and says do the screaming part again, mama!
my stories are not amazing. they are simple. they are real. they are treasures to my little ones and no matter how many times they ask, i will always share my story as they develop their own to be shared one day.
"miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see."