Well, I surrendered and jumped in. Both feet. Like I always do. Might as well give it a whole-hearted shot and evaluate later. So, spent three nights reading The Twelve Dancing Sisters. That first Monday morning that I had to tell a story - from memory - was a nail-biter. Would I remember everything? Would she be into it? Would I mess the whole thing up? Turns out, I had nothing to fear. Three nights of prep (and a little finger-crossing) left me sufficiently prepared. And you know what else? She loved it. I mean really loved it. Nothing too special. We lit a candle and sat on the living room floor and I told the story. No props. No funny voices. Just us, a candle, and a story. And I tell you, her face lit up. Every day now she looks forward to our story for the week. On Monday, I tell it. On Tuesday, I tell it with a little help from her. And on Thursday (Wednesday is our park morning), I ask her to tell it with me. Three days, one story.
So far we've done The Twelve Dancing Sisters (I believe in other editions it's also called The Worn-Out Dancing Shoes), Rapunzel, and Rumplestiltskin. I don't know why it works, but it does. There's something completely magical about storytelling. Sometimes she sculpts something from the story with playdough, or we draw a picture or do copywork from it, and sometimes we tie in form drawing if I can manage to find some connection. But really, I keep it simple, and it works wonders. I'm reading up now on how to select stories for particular temperaments, and the whole concept is fascinating to me. I don't understand it nearly enough to post on that aspect yet, but I'm really enjoying reading up on all of this.
***This post was originally going to be about one of our favorite books that crossed over into storytelling, but I got sidetracked. Go figure. More on that story next week . . .