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Lights, Camera, Action: At Bedtime?

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By MICHAEL WINTER

mwinter@tampatrib.com

Published: November 23, 2008

Used to be a man could read a bedtime story to his child and all that was required of him was a book, a small talent for enunciation and maybe the vocal flexibility to distinguish a princess's dialogue from the frog she's kissing.

Used to be a man could read a bedtime story to his child and the most daunting physical challenge was keeping the book open while simultaneously balancing on the edge of a bed and handing over the occasional glass of water to parched but enthralled listeners. Used to be a bedtime story was a testament to the power of the spoken word to transport receptive young minds to that most cherished of all childhood conditions: unconsciousness.

Lately, however, my nightly readings have begun to ... evolve. No longer are they a serene transition between the daily tasks of bailing the bathroom floor with a wet vac after my daughter's bath and coaxing the cats out of hiding once she's asleep. Instead, they have increasingly become an opportunity for rambunctious displays of grand theater. Or is it theatre? Either way the implications are disturbing. Story time has become STORY TIME! And that can only mean more work for me.

I never should have started taking requests. But they began like all snarling, bloodthirsty man-eaters: small and innocent. The first was a plea to reread a few pages because her current favorite stuffed animal, a piebald penguin chick affectionately known as "this guy," had not heard the beginning of the story because he was hanging out under the Wiggles couch in the corner, which is actually an iceberg and the carpet is the ocean and he was under the ocean with his best friend the Unicorn Princess who can breathe in water because Santa granted Pinocchio's wish.

How could I argue with logic like that?

Then came the subtle stage directions. I was informed the story would be better if I held the book out and pointed to the character who was talking. I was told pages should be turned quickly and quietly to avoid breaks in the action. Improvisation was discouraged. Tigers bounce. They don't jump. They don't leap. And they certainly don't spring. I was assured "everybody knows that."

Props soon followed. Pillows became snow-covered mountains and/or dragon eggs. My suggestion that they were places to rest weary little heads was met with scorn and derision. The aforementioned Wiggles couch has doubled as both the second little pig's house and the crocodile from Peter Pan. Occasionally it coughs up an unfortunate victim. (Hello Kitty is apparently tasty and a poor swimmer.)

"Honey," I asked recently, hoping to get back to basics, "can't Daddy just read the story to you like we used to?"

"Can we turn out the lights from now on?"

"Turn out the lights? How am I going to read the story with the lights off?"

"I don't like the big light. It's too bright. The flashlight is better!"

I should have put a stop to it right then and there. You can slight my voice acting. You can belittle my self-control - there's no sneezing, burping or coughing while narrating the exploits of Clifford the Big Red Dog. You can even criticize my posture. Slouching, apparently, makes hair grow on your back. (I was surprised by this as well.) But I will NOT have my production values questioned!

"The lights will stay on."

"But how will you turn the spotlight on me when I act out the story?"

"No acting out the story. This is listening time and getting sleepy time and not-waking-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-to-ask-me-why-giraffes-have-blue-tongues time."

"Because their heads don't get enough oxygen way up there!"

Well, at least she was paying attention. It was hard to stay mad at her. Still, I was determined to hold my ground. Then she used the oldest trick in the book, and I caved like an anthill under oversized plastic Hulk fists.

"Flashlights make me sleepy."

So we used the flashlight. And in its cheerful glow she acted out the story of Rapunzel. And as she leaned over the side of the bed to let down her long tresses, she looked up at me with a grateful smile, batted her eyes enchantingly and promptly keeled over the edge. And bumped her head on the wooden bed steps. And spent the next 20 minutes with an icepack on her head, accusing me of poor stage management (You were supposed to move the steps to the other side, Daddy) and slow reflexes (Plus, you were supposed to catch me) between sobs.

Despite the unhappy ending, I saw it as my chance to reestablish control over story time.

"You see what happens when you don't sit quietly while I read? I think from now on we should keep the lights on and leave our head on the pillow, where it can't get bumped."

"Is it swollen?" she asked, pulling the icepack from her head.

"A little," I said, wondering if I should be worried about brain swelling or cranial dents or Sudden Onset OCD.

"Good! Tomorrow night I can be the monster with the bump on her head who chases Clifford around the ice skating rink before the turtles' balloon race."

That's when I knew she was going to be fine.

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