The gift of the never-ending bedtime story

As one might imagine of a family of bibliophiles, our grandchildren have been listening to bedtime stories since before they were born. Then, from earliest infancy, bedtimes were filled so fully with nursery rhymes and picture books that if their bedroom walls could talk, they would likely do so in the rhyme and meter of Dr. Seuss.

We reached a family milestone recently, however, one for which I have been inadvertently rehearsing my entire life. James and Max now ask to hear my stories. And while my tales may not do a whole lot of rhyming, they do have a significant hook that keeps the boys coming back for more: Every one of Papa’s stories is almost undeniably, nearly certifiably, very close to being true.

The boys and I can cover a whole lot of ground in a single sitting. Questions are fully encouraged and pretty much unlimited, so we end up chasing subtopics off through the weeds more often than not (as is the case with most of my adult conversations anymore, by the way).

Their mother insists these endless questions are actually engineered to send me off to the hinterlands of thought and memory as a ploy to prolong the bedtime ritual.

I think that’s a bit of a stretch. I’m sticking with the idea that the boys are just infinitely interested in my stories. One thing is certain, however. The boys are quickly learning the value of spinning a good yarn. Four-year-old Max, in particular, seems to be finding his moment, and when I’m not around to offer up the entertainment, he’s taken to diving into his own bedtime monologues.

Just last night Charlotte sent us a grainy video, shot in the dark of the boys’ bedroom, of Max endlessly babbling on about the speed of cheetahs, his mastery of frogs and bugs, and the proper way to mesmerize a polar bear.

“He’s been going like this for a half-hour,” she said. “I haven’t figured out a way to stop him, and if I ask a question, it ends up leading to a whole new topic.”

My wife and I watched the video adoringly.

“Well, I think he might have my knack for mild embellishment,” I said. “Maybe he’ll be a writer when he grows up.”

“Maybe,” Kristin said, “but he’s just as likely to end up a politician. What we’re looking at here is a flat-out bedtime filibuster.”

Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.