Nate asked a girl to a dance, and I lived to tell the tale.

Except, I can’t write about it, because it’s not my tale to tell.

It’s easy to write publicly about the diaper days, the preschool years, even the elementary antics, isn’t it? We have such jusistidiction over our children’s lives then: within the cycle of dressing them, feeding them, bathing them, and holding them, we lay claim. There’s not an inch of them we don’t touch. Every hair on their heads is ours.

As are their words. Their stories. Their experiences. It’s not that we’re stealing them: it’s just that they pass hands so easily. We take them because they’re pressed upon us in open, sticky-palmed offering. With bright smiles. With tears. With earnestness.

Look at me! Decipher me. Define me.

Nate still offers his stories as well, but they take some unwrapping. And careful handling. Some are made of sturdy stuff, sure, but most are fragile, and fewer and fewer of them are meant for public consumption.

And that’s ok, because he’ll need his own stockpile of stories to tell someday.

Tagged as: everyday tales, Nate, raising kids