It had to happen sometime, but I figured it would not be for another ten years or so. But last night it happened. For the first time ever the boys did not want me to tell them stories at bedtime. Instead they wanted to tell me their stories. I was a bit put out with this, but put on a brave face and handed over the blue story chair to the boys.
Dylan went first. At five years of age he is now writing his own stories. He sticks scraps of paper together, carefully writes the title page then draws the rest. These picture drawings are wonderful, mixing real life with big adventures like travelling to the moon, swimming in oceans, walking through forests with wolves in them. So now he sat down with his latest book, opened it up and told the story to his audience of two. What i was particularly taken with was all the little details, like the radio on the astronauts helmet. After a big bula bus Dylan handed over the chair to his brother.
Callum at three don't do writing, but boy can he tell a story. I was at his creche on monday telling tales to the children and whilst all the other children joined in he simply sat watching me very carefully. Now last night he sat on his chair and began his telling. He's always been pretty good with gestures and wild ideas, but suddenly it just all fell into place, a slow steady delivery, with his voice falling in pitch at the scary bits, just the right body movements to indicate walking, swimming, being scared, silly ghosts etc. And even a few jokes thrown in which had his brother roaring with laughter. After a confident, if slightly long telling (he went for a pee half way through) he finished the story with Sin é, got off the chair and clambered into bed.
I was delighted with the boys' stories and sat down in the story chair to contribute to the evening's entertainment, but the lads had had their fun. I was relegated to singing songs.
Afterwards I went down stairs and found I had nothing to do. The final proof of Galway Bay Folk Tales had been sent off in the morning and was going to the printers at the end of the week. I'd also finished putting together four new workshops for teaching storytelling to children. I had time on my hand's but nothing to do. I very rarely watch telly but i decided to try gacking out in front of the idiot box. CSI was on. I watched it, mildly enjoyed it as the body count rose, but was a bit disappointed and confused by the ending which seemed to blame everything on dead squirrel. I think the story was trying to do a big theme thang about the interconnectedness of everything, but I just kept thinking about the Fireman Sam episode when a squirrel set Mandy's house on fire. Perhaps the CSI writers need to hang out with children more...
Dylan went first. At five years of age he is now writing his own stories. He sticks scraps of paper together, carefully writes the title page then draws the rest. These picture drawings are wonderful, mixing real life with big adventures like travelling to the moon, swimming in oceans, walking through forests with wolves in them. So now he sat down with his latest book, opened it up and told the story to his audience of two. What i was particularly taken with was all the little details, like the radio on the astronauts helmet. After a big bula bus Dylan handed over the chair to his brother.
Callum at three don't do writing, but boy can he tell a story. I was at his creche on monday telling tales to the children and whilst all the other children joined in he simply sat watching me very carefully. Now last night he sat on his chair and began his telling. He's always been pretty good with gestures and wild ideas, but suddenly it just all fell into place, a slow steady delivery, with his voice falling in pitch at the scary bits, just the right body movements to indicate walking, swimming, being scared, silly ghosts etc. And even a few jokes thrown in which had his brother roaring with laughter. After a confident, if slightly long telling (he went for a pee half way through) he finished the story with Sin é, got off the chair and clambered into bed.
I was delighted with the boys' stories and sat down in the story chair to contribute to the evening's entertainment, but the lads had had their fun. I was relegated to singing songs.
Afterwards I went down stairs and found I had nothing to do. The final proof of Galway Bay Folk Tales had been sent off in the morning and was going to the printers at the end of the week. I'd also finished putting together four new workshops for teaching storytelling to children. I had time on my hand's but nothing to do. I very rarely watch telly but i decided to try gacking out in front of the idiot box. CSI was on. I watched it, mildly enjoyed it as the body count rose, but was a bit disappointed and confused by the ending which seemed to blame everything on dead squirrel. I think the story was trying to do a big theme thang about the interconnectedness of everything, but I just kept thinking about the Fireman Sam episode when a squirrel set Mandy's house on fire. Perhaps the CSI writers need to hang out with children more...
And here's the wee storytellers in Moycullen on Saint Patrick's day
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