Story Time

The dog had an injection, and like a miracle, she’s her old herself again. Wagging her tail, sniffing happily on walks, bounding around the room with her toys. We had a warm spring-like day, and she sat out on the porch, perched on her pillow like the good old days and barked at the mailman. What’s in this injection? I don’t know. And no idea how long it will last, but meanwhile, I am grateful for it. 

The other day I led the story time at work. The children’s librarian was on vacation, and she asked me to step in. I know what you are imagining. Kids gathered around and here’s me sitting in a chair, placidly reading a picture book to them. But no. This story time is a full-blown production. Music. A slide show. Props. Toys. Bubbles shooting out of the bubble machine. 

It all culminates in a dance party. I was sweating before it even started. It took me a full forty-five minutes to set it all up. I used to do presentations at schools and writing conferences. I spoke in auditoriums to 500 people. But this story time for a small group of two and three-year-olds was on a whole other level. When it was over (in thirty minutes) my watch thought I’d done an aerobic workout. It clocked me as walking 5000 steps. 

I was still a little out of breath when I was cleaning and putting away all the toys. I couldn’t stop singing one of the songs, Stomp Stomp Elephants Stomp. I kept singing it even when my shift was over, and later, when I was home and sacked out on the couch. The dog scampered around me, begging for another walk. 

I took her. It was another weirdly warm day, all the previous snow melted, the birds back, and I swear I saw a flower. The dog trotted ahead of me like a puppy. I was singing another head-banger of song from the story time under my breath, I Know a Chicken. Somehow, I missed this song from when my own kids were little. 

Back then a friend told me “the days are long and the years are short,” and I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. It was so true. The days were never ending. The years flashed past. The kids grew up. We had a puppy. We had an old dog. The world went crazy. The world was always crazy. How do other people do this, make sense of it? 

At the story time there was a little girl who kept toddling up to me while I was rhyming and clapping and chanting and dancing. I was waving a stuffed dog puppet around, and I lowered it, so she could pet it. Instead, she surprised me by pulling it out of my hands and taking off with it, laughing. 

I laughed too. There is no making sense. Another day begins. Another day ends. 

What can we do, but be here, grateful?