Each night after Buckaroo and I read stories, turn off the light and tuck in, he asks me to make up a story, and then he gives me the subject. Usually the stories involve him and his best little buddy riding a roller coaster. I attempt to make the stories as brief as possible as the goal is to get Buckaroo to nod off. Sometimes I get wrapped up in the adventure of it and forget I'm trying to get him to Bedfordshire.
Tonight Buckaroo asked for a story about a red-nosed froggie. I named him Rocky, and the first story I told was how Rocky lead a rescue team to a boy who was knocked unconscious while ice skating-- maybe not the best choice for a two-year-old's bedtime story, but I've had a long day.
Buckaroo requested a second story about Rocky hopping through the snow, and this is what I told him:
One day Rocky's wife asked Rocky to pick up a few things at the store. It was bitter cold outside in the middle of winter, so Rocky bundled up in his hat, coat, mittens and scarf, grabbed his reusable grocery bag and began the long hop through the snow.
As he made his way along the road, cars sped past him and would sometimes splatter him with muddy, icy, puddle water. The wind bit at his cheeks, and he struggled as his little frog legs sank into the frosty powder with every step.
Rocky decided that hopping in the snow was for the birds, so he leaped out into the road just as a truck blew past, and he landed smack in the middle of the truck's bed. He rolled this way and that and tried to find a toe hold as the truck bounced through potholes and slid across ice patches. Finally he wedged himself in against the wheel well and held on with all of his strength.
When the truck finally squealed to a stop, Rocky was shaking all over, even his teeth were chattering (do frogs have teeth?). He managed to clamber out of the truck and find his way to the store. He bought butter, bread, cheese, and apples, packed up his bag and headed back out into the chill.
He soon spotted another truck, but this time Rocky wasn't so lucky with his leap. The heavy bag must have slowed him because instead of finding himself in a truck bed, he was hanging onto the bumper. The wind took his hat, threatened his scarf, and his bag of food was whipping wildly in one hand as he clutched the trailer hitch with the other. His eyes teared with the sting of the cold, and he couldn't see where the truck was taking him.
After what seemed like months, Rocky saw the blurry vision of his favorite old oak tree as he was racing by it, and he let go of the truck. It was a rough landing. Rocky banged up his knee, and his groceries tumbled all over the road. He found himself a walking stick, gathered up his bruised apples and scuffed cheese, and hobbled home.
Inside the house he emptied his bag of booty onto the table and plopped into the nearest seat, assessing the damage and catching his breath.
Ms. Frosch-Frog found the band-aids and tended to her crimson-cheeked husband as he shivered and puffed in his chair. She kissed him very tenderly on his cold forehead
and whispered, "You forgot the milk."
I know. I left the red nose out of the story line completely. Buckaroo wasn't bothered. Maybe you can fit it in somewhere?
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