Really - the choice is mine. The problem is: I've no more stories to tell. None. I've told her every anecdote I can think of about my life and the lives of family members and pets. And then some. I'm not above embellishing a few details.
So this week I've started on Fairy Tales. She is mostly unaware of all fairy tales and the slate is clean and blank and all mine.
I began with Jack and the Beanstalk a few days ago. She loved it. But she was so scared. No kidding. I must be a better story teller than I realize.
Cinderella was today and - again, I am an awesome story teller. She loved it.
Although as I was telling the story - I identified with Cinderella a little more than I would have liked.
"The Mother did not like Cinderella. She made her do all the cleaning. She had to do all the cooking. She had to do all the vacuuming."
"Because the Mother did not like her. She had to make all the beds. She had to do all the washing. Cinderella had to work very hard."
And in other news: I almost ran into my Host Mother this morning. And she nearly ran into me.
I was turning back into our street with the car and she was leaving on her Vespa and we very nearly met in the middle.
Could have been worse, could have been much much worse. Whew.
Note to self: In future times, when you read this blog - you were not feeling like Cinderella. Put your rose-coloured glasses back on.