We recently finished reading The Trumpet of the Swan by E.B. White. After the usual bedtime stories and hugs and kisses, we'd turn out the light and by the glow of Edwin (the ladybug night light) I'd read a chapter from the book. Funky B listened intently, absorbing the plot while MonkE rolled around in her bunk like a puppy making it's bed, finally settling in sideways (?!?!?). A rather nice way to end the day.
I have been pleasantly impressed with how much of the story Funky B remembers and understands from the previous nights. I have also been touched with how the story has filtered into her art and her play.
Last week we were out enjoying the sunshine, running around, and watching the ducks and geese. Eventually both girls settled in beside me and we all became somewhat mesmerized by the waterfowl. A particularly large flock of Canada Geese flew overhead. Sun warmed our faces. A breeze knocked loose the last few yellow leaves off a tree. Funky B leaned in and whispered that we should pretend the geese were Trumpet Swans and that we were like Sam Beaver, quietly watching the cygnets hatch. She rested her head on my shoulder, wrapped her hand in mine, and said, "It's magical, isn't it Mama?"
Yes, my dear. You are.