Where the Sheep are Nervous

For the past month or so, I have been telling Wrigley a story as part of our bedtime routine. Wrigley makes the request, and I tell the story. We started with "Tell me about a firetruck" stories then moved on to "Tell me about an ambulance" stories. The ambulance series has been quite popular and has become increasingly graphic. We quickly went from "Tell me about an ambulance" to "Tell me an ambulance-airport-plane-crash story." Because I am a wuss and I don't want to instill a fear of flying in my daughter, I told a story about two planes that crashed while taxiing. When Wrigley tired of that story, she requested "Tell me an ambulance-train-crash story." Again feeling wussy, I told a story about a simple, non-injury-inducing derailment. This did nothing to satisfy my child's bloodlust, so we quickly graduated to "Tell me a story about a train crash where two trains crash into each other," and then, "Tell me an ambulance-airport-plane-crash story where the two planes crash into each other while they're flying and the ambulance has to work all night."

Last night, our story telling requests took an alarming turn: "Daddy, tomorrow night I want you to tell me an ambulance-farm story."

An ambulance farm story? I have about 7 hours to figure out how an ambulance farm story is supposed to go. All I can say is pity the livestock.