Storytelling works its way into every family, whether you realize it or not! It’s sitting around the dinner table and asking each other, “How was your day?” It’s remembering holidays and vacations together while you page through a photo album; it’s telling an embarrassing story that you are now able to laugh about. Over Memorial Day weekend, I was stung by a wasp, and my youngest daughter Emmy was there. She asks me over and over again, “Tell me when you got stinged by a wasp!” Babies love to hear their mothers’ voices; storytelling begins before they are even born. When I was pregnant with Lily, I talked to her constantly; while I was pregnant with Emmy, she heard me talking to Lily constantly!

Janna of Mommy’s Piggy Tales began a project to share our youth with our children. Every Thursday, I will tell a story about my childhood as if I were sharing it with my children. At the end of this project, I’ll have a collection of stories about my childhood for my children to keep, and hopefully treasure.

It was the middle of the night, in the middle of winter, in the middle of the country. The nearest hospital was 40 miles away, and my parents, your Grandpa Jim and Grandma Loreeta, had to drive across the border — the border between Nebraska and Iowa. It was a very snowy night, but Grandma and Grandpa arrived safely — and on time — at the hospital. Back then, the father of the baby was not allowed to be present during the birth, so Grandpa had to wait in the waiting room. Grandma delivered me so fast that the doctor told her, “What do you think you’re doing? Having a baby?” I was born on Sunday, February 2, at 3:39 a.m.

Grandma asked, “Is it really a girl?” when I was born. And when Grandpa saw me, he was speechless.

Not only is February 2nd Groundhog’s Day, but I was also the first baby born in Sioux City during National Dental Health Week. Grandma was presented with a silver baby toothbrush by the president of the local Dental Auxiliary. There was a even a photo of the presentation and an short article in the local paper about my birth.

When I was born, Grandpa was the pastor at a small church in rural Nebraska. Grandma and Grandpa wanted to give me a special name, and so they gave me a first name that meant I was a follower of Christ. My middle name is my mom’s middle name, and my grandma’s middle name, and my great-grandma’s first name. And that is how Grandma and Grandpa named me: Christa Marie.

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(not my real name…mostly! Someday I’ll tell you about how I came up with my blog name, although now you may be able to guess 😉