TELL A STORY

In which Spike's dad loses ground in the battle of the bedtimes.


Dear Spike:

Round one of Mortal Combat Beddy-bye Time goes to me. I put you down at 8:30. You were dreaming by 8:45.

Round two goes to you.

We followed the exact same routine as last night — we said goodnight to your mother and then marched around the house saying goodnight to everything in sight.

“Goodnight front door.”

“Goodnight wilting plant.”

“Goodnight pile of Newsweek magazines.”

Then I made you a bottle of milk and off to bed we went. Lights off. All quiet. Sandman cometh.

All was going according to plan — and having a plan, that we follow night after night after night until you learn how to shut your little wiggly body down, is the plan — until I faltered.

“Daddy tell a story,” you whispered. “Daddy tell a story. Tell a story pleeeeeease.”

I love bedtime stories. It took me a while to get the hang of telling them — its as much a science as an art, I’ve found — but I’m getting better at it all the time. But bedtime stories are not part of our plan.

“Daddy tell a circus story,” you whined. “Tell a circus story, pleeeeeeease.”

I love the circus story. It has dancing elephants and acrobatic cats. Clowns balanced on tiny bicycle and trapeze artists who do death-defying tricks high up in the big top.

And so I told the story. Slowly and almost in a whisper, as to lull you to sleep.

And when it was over, I looked to see you nestled comfortably in your pillow…

… eye wide open.

“Daddy tell another story,” you begged. “Tell another story, pleeeeeease.”

And so one story turned into two. And two stories turned into three. And now its 10 p.m. and you’ve finally fallen asleep.

Round three commences tomorrow night. 8:30 sharp.
Which means story time is going to have to commence at 8.

Love,
dad