Momnesia

It's a nightly ritual. We read a book or we tell a story. Sometimes we share (mostly) true stories about relatives in childhood, like "The Time Mommy Fell Off Her Bike in the Middle of the Street and Cried a Lot." Sometimes she wants a "made-up" story, like "Emerson and the Tale of the Solid Gold Bootie" (an instant classic).

But last night, after 48 hours of minimal sleep due to her illness, I was tapped out.

"Let me read you a story," I suggested. "What would you like - Harry Potter? Junie B. Jones? Captain Underpants?"

"NOoooo! I want a made-up story! Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeth?"

"I just don't have any ideas, Doodle," I sighed. She's 7 years old, after all. That means I've told her approximately 2,500 stories. There's only so much I can do. Not even Hans Christian Anderson had such a demanding audience!

"PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEETH!" she begged, and clung to me. And then my brain melted and I heard my mouth agree.

"Okay. But give me a starting place."

"Umm, how about zombies?" she said. This girl knows her mama.

"Okay," I agreed. "There once was a Sheriff whose name was Rick Grimes..."