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The Magic (and Mayhem) of Reading to My Kids

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I used to think bedtime stories were solely for the children—magical tales to end the day, a moment of bonding, a gentle slide into dreamland. And while all of that was true, I didn’t realize just how often I would be the one drifting off first.

When my kids were little, reading together at night was a cherished ritual. We had a shelf overflowing with picture books, worn-out paperbacks, and secondhand finds that always seemed to be calling our names. Every night, we’d gather on the edge of the bed or on the floor,  a small pile of books beside us, and settle in for the evening’s adventures—talking animals, pickle cakes, clever kids, friendly monsters, fun families, and faraway lands.

It always started with the best of intentions. I’d read aloud, doing all the voices, leaning into the rhythm of the words, and letting the story fill the room like a lullaby. But somewhere around page six or seven, something would change. My voice would soften. My words would slow. And then—mid-sentence, mid-word even—I’d trail off.

“Moooooom? You fell asleep again!”

There would be giggles. A little nudge. Sometimes even an attempt to finish the story without me, complete with their own made-up endings or wild plot twists that were far more creative than what was actually written.

I wish I could say it only happened once or twice. But no—this became part of the bedtime tradition. I’d be valiantly trying to reach the end of The Clown Arounds or Goodnight Moon or The Very Hungry Caterpillar or Pickle Things, and my brain would simply say, “Nope. We’re clocking out early tonight.” Apparently, reading with a child snuggled up next to you is the fastest way to lull yourself to sleep, too.

Looking back, I realize those moments were more than just funny. They were real, imperfect, beautiful snapshots of parenting my children. I was tired—bone-tired some days—but I still showed up with a book in hand. My children didn’t mind if the story got cut short or if I accidentally called the bear a “banana” while half-asleep. What mattered most was that we were together, wrapped up in words and the warmth of each other after bath-and-hair wash nights.

Now that they’re adults, storytime looks different. We all read our own books curled up in a chair or in a hammock. We often read at the same time and in the same place. And every once in a while, they’ll still mention how I used to fall asleep while reading to them—and we all laugh. It’s become a family memory, a precious part of our story. And if I had to do it all over again, sleepy stumbles and all, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Now, all these years later, I find myself doing it again—but this time, with my grandkids. The books may be new (we still read the ones from when my children were young too, like Pickle Things), the covers shinier, and the characters updated, but the pattern is achingly familiar. We curl up on the couch or squeeze into the corner of their beds, and I start to read with enthusiasm—at first. They snuggle in, wide-eyed and expectant, and I fall right back into my old rhythm… and, yes, right back into dozing off mid-sentence.

Sometimes I catch myself just in time, jolting awake to a page I’ve already read twice. Other times, they catch me. “Grandma, you’re falling asleep again!” they whisper, giggling. And I laugh, because of course I am. Some things never change.

It turns out that the magic of storytime isn’t just in the books—it’s in the warmth, the closeness, and the shared quiet at the end of a long day. Whether I’m reading to little hands that once belonged to my children, or to my grandchildren now, the joy is the same… and so, apparently, is the sleepiness.

Because in those quiet, drowsy moments, even unfinished stories can become treasured ones.

Family Ink: The Mother and Son Storytelling Team