One of the definitions of storytelling is to pass down history orally, from one generation to the next. In this case, the following story has been passed to me by Becca, Madeline’s caregiver, because I wasn’t home to witness it myself.

One day, when I had happened to escape the house by myself for some forgotten reason, Clara and Presley decided to have some fun with J’onn and Cory. The girls told them that our front coat closet was really an elevator that, if you got in, closed the door so it was dark, and stood in the very back corner, you could travel to different rooms. There were a few caveats. The had to count to a different number (in the hundreds) for each room they wanted to go to, and each time someone opened the door, you had to start again. But the really fun part was that if they counted to 500, they could go to our ice cave.

In the end, after a lot of frustration about doors being opened too soon, the girls finally fessed up that it was a joke. J’onn’s response: “I’m really disappointed. I was really looking forward to seeing the ice cave.”

When asked this morning if he wanted to get into the elevator and visit the ice cave, Cory’s reply was: “No, you have to count to 100 five times.” Not, “There is no ice cave.” Not, “You were tricking us last time.” Nope. Just a mild complaint that you have to count too long to get there.