When I think about my childhood, some of my fondest memories are of bedtime stories with my mother.
She would finally settle down after dinner with a magazine in hand, hoping for a few quiet moments to herself. Within minutes, I would be beside her, asking for a story. She would flip through her magazine looking for a kid-appropriate one.
Somewhere in the middle of the tale, before the prince reached the castle or the rabbit escaped the fox, I would drift off to sleep, happily holding her hand.


