Last night the BHE* and I visited my sister-in-law. It was the first night she was home alone with a newborn and a four-year-old, so we went over to help put the four-year-old niece, J, to bed while the new niece was being attended to.
One of the steps in J’s inflexible bedtime ritual is the telling of an original “Once-upon-a-time” story as she lies in bed. J was very weepy about not having her mom put her to bed, and when it was time for the story she melted down. “You don’t know how to tell stories!” she wailed. I assured her that I do, and I tell stories all the time, but she kept insisting that she needed a certain kind of special story that I wouldn’t be able to tell. Finally she yelled “I like special stories! You don’t know how to tell stories with special things like magic and unicorns and dragons!”.
I suppressed my impulse to demonstrate my knowledge of hit dice and special attacks, and explained to her that although she doesn’t know me very well, I really really do know a lot about magic, unicorns, and dragons, and I tell stories about them all the time. Eventually she calmed down, and after we’d had a few minutes of the story about her two stuffed unicorns (Uni and
Whitey) visiting a lady who lives in the woods and gives nuts to squirrels she said “I like your kind of story the best.”
I can’t believe a preschooler questioned my magical unicorn creds. Clearly I haven’t been spending enough time with her.
*Best Husband Ever. I asked him what he wanted to be called, and he said “Whatever I say is going to come back to haunt me.”