The other night, from the hallway outside my second-grader’s bedroom, I heard her ask my husband for a very specific bedtime story – so specific I could have sworn she was choosing prompts just to screw with him. She wanted one that was about “mowing lawns in a place called Bananaland, and a festival, and monkeys, but make it funny”.
G’luck, I thought, as I started to tiptoe away, having completed my read-aloud portion from The Swiss Family Robinson, which we’re making our way through together each night.
