I lied to my daughter last night. And I told her the truth, too.
Last night, as I tucked in my toddler before her first day of school, she asked “can you tell me about my day?” and I realized I made it.
For the past many weeks, I’ve been telling her the story of her day. We go moment by moment, noticing details of the day, noticing when she was brave or helpful or kind or silly, and celebrating that. Noticing when she had a hard time but did something anyway. Noticing when she was able to calm herself down.
I’ve been selective about what goes in the story. Telling the truth about some things, and conveniently leaving out other details.
And, now, she started asking me for these stories. I see that she craves the meaning-making that comes from storytelling. She craves an understanding of who she is in the world, and she gets that from my own ability to create meaning.
She knows that she slid down the slide, but we emphasized that it was a steep slide with a scary way up. Brave! (the part about her standing at the top hesitating didn’t make it into the story)
She knows that she ate breakfast, but we emphasized that she picked out the cups for everyone. Helpful! (the part about her refusing to take any more than two bites didn’t make it into the story)
She knows that she danced with her cousins, but we emphasized that she had such fun dance moves. Silly! Good dancing! Good cousins! (the part about her having a hard time sharing her toys… didn’t make it into the story)
I could have told the opposite story. She was scared at the slide, didn’t eat well, didn’t share… but that wouldn’t be the whole truth. Neither was this.
We as people are meaning-makers. We have always, always been selective with the facts when it comes to our stories.
By going through the details, I’m helping her shed some light on who and how she is, and slowly, together, we’re framing her perception of herself, one (selective) story at a time.
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