A pile of clothing, still warm from the dryer, created a mountain on my bed. Scattered hangers littered the room, while Alex was cozily amongst the chaos with his blue blanket stuffed under his nose and twirled among his tiny fingers. SpongeBob Squarepants played on the TV, and Alex said, "Mommy, lay down with me." I just couldn't, not then. I wanted to. The Lord knew I needed to, but there was a pile of clothes beckoning my attention.
So I folded, hung and put away the mountain of clothing.
And, then, I laid down with Alex.
He looked up at me, smiled and said, "Kiss me, Mommy."
So I kissed his tiny cheek, and he smiled.
Then, he said, "Tell me a story."
Translation? Tell him a story. Don't read a story, but make one up.
To grab Lucas' attention, who also meandered in the room, I started out, "Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Lucas ..."
But was quickly interrupted.
"No. Tell me a story about a little boy named Alex."
So I started again. "Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Alex." A grin spread across his face, so I continued, "He was a silly little boy ..."
"No. Tell me a story about a little boy named Alex who lived in a house with his family."
The story started again. "Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Alex, who lived in a house with Jacob, Lucas, Steelie, Henry and Mommy. He loved to play outside with his new horse tire swing and pool. The end."
A smile spread across his face. He was happy. So was I.
I guess it doesn't matter if the story is fiction or non-fiction as long as a mommy and her tiny son are curled up in a big bed just a kiss away from happiness.