Growing up, our family car trips always included math problems from my mom as a way of keeping me and my brother and sister entertained. “What’s 25 + 18 – 3 divided by 4?” (answer: 10). Occasionally, she would stray from the math problems and tell a story. Sometimes they were about her crazy younger brother, Steve, who believed he could be superman, jumped off a roof and broke his nose. Or about how my mom poked herself in the eye with a sharp pencil, and she would point out the small dot on her eyeball that still remained. There were also made-up stories that included all the 5 “Ps”: people, place, problem, progress and point. The “people” were fictionalized versions of me and my siblings, usually getting lost and having to work together to find our way back home to our family. I suppose the point from the stories was to stick together or maybe to listen to our parents better.
Despite my mom’s example, I confess that it was hard for me to make up stories when I became a parent. A five year-old can be a tough audience, very willing to point out flaws and express displeasure. I much preferred to read a story to my girls, because others had already figured out all the details. But they were not satisfied with an off-the-shelf story and would often request a made-to-order story, especially when I was driving them somewhere and reading a book was not an option. So we worked together to make up stories. We created stories about their stuffed animals, their dogs and their favorite fictional characters. We incorporated their favorite foods, toys and games. In one, all the characters from the Scooby Doo show went on a picnic, found a real-life “My Little Pony” trapped in a tower and saved her from the mean witch by baking a delicious cheese soufflé laced with a sedative. In another, my daughters find a dog who refuses all the food they offer it and they worry it will die until one day the dog sees them eating pieces of nori (seaweed) and snatches that out of their hands and from then on will eat nothing but nori. As we developed our repertoire of home-spun stories, there were plot elements and lines that we had to remember and repeat in every re-telling. It was hard work.
But looking back, I’m grateful that my daughters were so demanding in their story-telling tastes. I was forced to be more creative and they stretched their imaginations too. I no longer drive my daughters around, and when I do they prefer music over a story. I’m hoping, though, that they have lasting memories of our unique collaborative stories, ones that they might someday tell on a long car ride with their own kids.
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