Last night, Owen requested a "Bob and Jim" story. I had no clue what he was talking about. Paul, however, grinned with recognition, and said, "All right buddy. Tonight. At bedtime. After Mommy goes downstairs."
Now, if there's one thing I don't like, it's being out of the loop. Until that moment, I had no interest in or knowledge about Bob and/or Jim. But now, since it's something that apparently, I'm not invited to, an evening of Bob and Jim stories sounds incredibly entertaining.
Over dishes, I ask Paul to give me the skinny about Bob and Jim. He explains that they are stories that his dad used to tell him and his brother when tucking them into bed. Since Paul's dad imagined up these stories, they tended to involve Wisconsin, fishing, railroad tracks, camping, and hobo songs. Bob and Jim, I guess, are a tamer version of the escaped convicts from O Brother, Where Art Thou? , tramping around, stealing pies off windowsills, and dreaming of the Big Rock Candy Mountain.
So, after stories and prayers (Owen, once again, thanked Jesus for "Trick or Treating, and sippy cups, too!"), I gave my hugs and kisses, and left the boys to their stories. Actually, I sat on the step, listening for a minute. As Paul began the story, I realized that this really isn't about me, it's about Paul and Owen.
So, I left them alone, as Paul, Owen, Bob and Jim linked the past to the present to the future.