Stop talking, I'm telling a story...

The bedtime routine used to be simple. Clean cut. Bath, a story or two (three on a bad night), kiss kiss, sweet dreams and retreat. Clean. Straight in and out, no messing. 

Not so anymore. Grace has taken charge. 

I can thank preschool for this change. Story circle I think they call it. Where they sit and listen, quiet as a lamb while the reader holds the book a certain way so the whole class can see the page.

Yes, I have preschool to blame. 

For I'm in the throes of 'a squash and a squeeze' last night, the flavour of the day, and all of a sudden I get told to stop! Stop!

"What's the matter?" I enquire, nonplussed.

"You're holding the book wrong!" She tells me, moving my fingers to the spine and turning the book to face the room. "Like this Mummy!" She nods, satisfied.

I pick up where I left off, adjusting to the new position, enjoying our time together. As I draw to a close, I'm aware that Grace is looking fidgety. 

"My turn now Mummy!" She declares, peeling the book from my grip. 

"Really?" I concede, half an eye on the clock.

"Yes, now sit down cross-legged and be quiet. Listen!"

And so I sat. And I listened. So endearing hearing her interpret the pictures in her own way, pebbled with the odd 'be quiet!' aimed at me for joining in or laughing, or something. One book led to two and more. More! MORE! A moment to be cherished.

A bit like the moment at the end of a long day between a child's bedtime and your own. 

It was short last night. A bittersweet combo of Grace finding her storytelling wings and me needing to hit the sack early. 

Night all.