Stories have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember – whether it was ruining my eyes to read by flashlight long after my parents had gone to bed, narrating fantastic tales into my Fisher Price recorder, or eagerly unwrapping another Louise Bennett book during my family’s annual Christmas trip to the homeland (Trinidad).
Now my children are following in my footsteps.
My eldest feigns sleep when we check on him at night, finger still holding his place in the latest library book as he waits for us to leave before diving into it once more. My middle son regales us with stories about his friends and animals in their far-flung adventures – often at the expense of his cooled-off dinner. And my youngest stacks books by her pillow, usually “liberated” from her brothers’ room across the hall, prompting heated debates amongst the three of them as to which books belong to whom.
If these are the worst arguments we’ll hear, I’ll gladly take them.
Stories shape who are – and who we are to become.
May the stories that all of our children read and hear be their gateway to the world, a rich tapestry of language, culture and experiences that make this life so extraordinary.