Tell about when your hand turned black...

These children love hearing stories about when I was little.  The good thing about that is me trolling through my memory to come up with all the anecdotes that would otherwise be forgotten to time.  The other good thing, that at first I saw as a bad thing, was that it is sometimes tough for me to think of stories about my dad from my younger childhood that don’t show him to be just difficult and cranky.  Both of those descriptors might be true, but they aren’t the image I want the children to carry of him, especially Yessa who never got to meet him.  So, I’ve been thinking and pondering and reminiscing, and it has made me realize how incredibly blessed I am to have three other humans on this planet who have an interest in hearing my stories.  I love to hear what they have to say, but to have it be reciprocal?!  Wow!  What a blessing.

And how fantastic it is in when one of them references a story I’ve told them.

“That’s kind of like the time your hand turned black, isn’t it, Mom.”  And then we both laugh and smile at each other knowingly.

Family lore, born before my eyes.

Yes, I did something that made my hand turn black, briefly, and the children love to hear about it again and again.