It’s just a bed.
A little twin bed with a tendency to creak too much for our daughter’s liking. It’s also way too small, according to Amanda, who is prone to exaggeration and has been dying for a new one for the last few years.
I remember when we all used to be able to fit in that bed. The whole family would climb in together – Amanda, Rick, me and even Alec, who usually ended up falling into the crack between bed and wall and had to be rescued.
Storytelling, I have decided, is sort of the verbal hieroglyphics of a family, the color added to the commentary; the explanation for the picture of your brother dressed as a princess at age four long after everyone has forgotten it ever happened.
After a couple dozen re-tellings, stories take the place of actual memories. They fill in all the gaps.
My mother was a fabulous storyteller. So good that at some point, she simply took over my father’s own childhood stories, which were clearly lacking, and told them herself.
Wild thoughts go through your head when you’re pregnant, scary thoughts like, ‘Why should I cave in to societal pressures and not sprinkle pretzels on top of my pie a la mode?’
Once you have the child, other fears take over, many irrational. When my daughter Amanda was born nearly 14 years ago, I was seized by one in particular. Awakened in a sweat in the middle of the night, it plagued me.
What would I do if her hair grew to a length where it became necessary for some sort of accessory or other apparatus?