Tell me a story

So far, so good, I'd say: our holiday weekend thus far has been both active (Exhibit A: a 6 a.m. turn in a hotel whirlpool this morning) and silly (Exhibit B: Mr. Potato Head ridiculousness contest). Sure, there was some sclerotic holiday traffic, and, sure, travel can make a gal a bit homesick (Exhibit C: Cleo, this morning, declared that " I miss my adorable little desk and chair," where she eats her granola each day). But if the hardest thing about a trip is that is makes you appreciate home a little more, then all's more or less well.

That said, L. and I have been facing one other challenge that's arisen consistently over the past few weeks, regardless of where we are. Ultimately, it too is almost risibly modest, and perhaps even lovable: it consists of nothing more than Cleo saying, 10 or 12 times a day, that she wants us to tell her a story. And what, you ask, is so wrong with that? Nothing - aside from the impoverished state of our imaginations. Because Cleo's not asking us to read a story, or, generally, even to recite a familiar tale. She wants a new story, cut from clean cloth. Sometimes she'll offer a couple of prompts; this morning, for instance, she asked for a story that involved a wolf and a monster. Just as often, though, you're given nothing in the way of guidance. Just tell a story.

It's true, of course, that 3-year-olds are pretty undemanding, as far as audiences go. But, still, you want your story to hang together. After all, you're competing with the polished, published tales on which she's been raised; your listener expects the tight narrative of a Mother Goose story, and the pleasant cohesiveness of one of Curious George's experiences. And, too, you need to shape your vocabulary thoughtfully on the fly: your wordings should accommodate your little listener. Then there's the fact, as well, that Cleo's not your only audience; often, your spouse is a few feet away, casually wondering how, exactly, you'll resolve the tension between wolf and monster.

So we try our best. And yet, even as we do, we feel acutely aware of our own shortcomings as storytellers. I  fall back too often, for example, on coy inversions of expectation (the monster turns out to be nice) and on silly props (a piece of pie featured prominently in this morning's third tale). Obviously, we're thrilled with the idea that our little girl loves stories - but frustrated by the fact that we can't accommodate that love more artfully, or more easily. In that sense, I sometimes feel like the generic court musicians who are ordered, in medieval epics, to play for the king. What, they must have wondered, should I play? And must I really play all night, while the intemperate Darab wine-bibs or until Beowulf's men down the last of the mead? Does the king even like this raga? Doesn't he realize that my hands ache, and that Ahmed, on the tabla, needs a rest?

Well, increasingly, Cleo must realize that even the most enthusiastic storytellers can grow tired, for we've told her as much, and asked her to step in and play a role, as well. And so, over the past few days, a new game has evolved, in which we take turns contributing to an unfolding narrative. Each speaker offers a sentence or two, and then pauses, and lets the next player embroider. Due to the simple fact of collaboration, and to Cleo's apparent taste for sudden and spectacular new variables, it's less clear than ever where the narrative might be headed. But that's part of the appeal, of course, along with the fact that such an approach lessens the pressure on the storyteller; now we're all accountable, in a sense, for the story's arc.

And, finally, there's the simple fact that it's wonderful to listen as a young girl's imagination takes an audible form. Cleo is no king, but she can be, like any 3-year-old, a demanding and willful presence. How beautiful is it, then, when a king steps down from his dais, picks up a lute, joins the quartet, and simply joins in, now nothing more than one of the cohort of music-makers?