It is well known ’round these here parts that Rosie hates 1) playing Monopoly and 2) reading bedtime stories. Yeah, I’m a real fun mom on those rainy days. Anyway, because my children like to torture me, they often request bedtime stories. “PLEASE, Mommy!! Please?! Momma? Please?! Just ooooooooooonnnnnnnne? Just a chaaaaaaaaaaaaaapteeeeeeeeeeeer? Because if you don’t, and I die before I wake, you’re gonna feel reallllly guilty!! Please, mommamommymomma, pleeeeeeeeeeeeease?!” I usually wind up condensing Sandra Boynton. “Look! It’s a Penguin! And he wants to stalk you. The End.”
“I don’t know why I bother,” Amy will say and then sigh. “That wasn’t even an age appropriate story.”
“You didn’t understand what the penguin wanted?” I’ll ask.
“I understood,” she’ll say and narrow her eyes at me. “But it’s Olivia’s book. My book is on my shelf. Tuck Everlasting. Chapter 3.” She settles down in her bed, smooths the covers, and says very primly, “You may begin.”
“Whatsherface dies because she doesn’t drink the water. Tuck visits her grave and he and his sister talk about how it was right that she didn’t want to live forever and how she had a full life and then about what it’s like to live forever, and then they ride off. It’s a little bittersweet. The End.”
My daughter has perfected her “You’re an idiot” stare.
See? I hate reading aloud.
If I could somehow convince Christopher Walken to take over my bedtime story obligation, I think we’d all be much happier.
I wonder if he likes bored [sic] games.