The best part of family is the coziness and love between generations. When I visit my little guy, I love snuggling and telling him stories of his choosing. We get comfortable and turn the lights low. As I tuck in him in his quilt, he asks “Gwamma, tell me a story.”
“What do you want to hear?”
“Tell me about when you were bad.” I’ll launch into yet another story of mischief I got into as a rambunctious child, usually involving one of my unfortunate brothers or sisters, and some grave misunderstanding or miscalculation. Always embellished for greater appeal, one leads to another, until eventually one of us drifts off to sleep. I want him to know what I was like as a child and to understand that we are really not that different, despite the years between us. I need to tell these things as much as he needs to hear them.