I once received a survey from my former graduate institution in which one of the sections had to do with professional and community organizations to which I belonged. I figured there must be something, but as I started thinking I realized it had been years since I had belonged to anything—Campfire Girls, Key Club, whatever. I knew I wasn't much of a joiner, but the survey made that fact pretty obvious.

Whenever I see my daughter in a large group, I think of that survey and contemplate heredity. She's not timid—a bit shy at first, generally—but in group settings she always hangs back and almost never joins in. She's happy and she knows it, but she stands there while the other kids clap; it's fine with her if they point out their heads, shoulders, knees, and toes (knees and toes!), but she wouldn't be caught dead. I'm wary of doing too much projecting, but I like to think that maybe she's just not a joiner. (On the other hand, I find myself—against my own natural inclinations—clapping and stomping and hokey-pokeying like a fool, as if to show her it's okay to join in. I'm sure she is internally thinking, "Just stop, Mama, that is so embarrassing.") It's not that she dislikes the activities we've gone to, at least I don't think so. Of course, there aren't all that many, because I've evolved an elaborate philosophy about keeping activities to a minimum in order not to overschedule her. In other words, I am too lazy to seek out very many activities. I prefer the low-commitment, low-effort vibe of library story hour, a pleasant ten-minute walk from our house once a week. It's free, you don't have to sign up, it doesn't matter if you're late, and afterward we can go hang out on the beanbags in the library and choose books. What's not to like?

Well, all those other kids, for one thing, if my daughter's behavior is any indication. I think she would like story hour much better if it were just her and Miss Chris, the librarian who leads it. I mean, she looks at the other kids, and is vaguely interested in them, but mostly she wants to hang out at the edges of the room and then get right out of Dodge when things are over. At first, I thought she disliked story time intensely; it turns out, though, that she talks about it all the time, and sings the songs when we're not there, so she must be enjoying it, in her appraising way. Each week, the librarian picks a theme, and reads books and sings songs and tells stories (using a black felt board, with adorable little felt cut-outs, to illustrate) that go with the theme. These are always charming, and Miss Chris's storytelling is calm and measured—engaged and kid-friendly, but entirely free of that shrieking, hyperactive note that so frequently creeps into the voices of those working with small children. I could, frankly, sit and listen to her read for quite a while. I'm afraid I'm not really able to suspend my sense of the ridiculous or grating just in order to provide enriching activities for my child; if I can't listen without cringing, I'm not going to go to an activity, much less drive to it or pay for it.

In any case, story time is the perfect activity these days, because whether or not Nora is interested in interacting with other kids, we have definitely reached the age of narrative in these parts. Story hour at our house starts at 6am and continues—with numerous interruptions, of course—until approximately 7pm, also known as bedtime. We've been reading a lot of books, of course (current favorites include the Frances books), but one thing that has surprised and delighted me is Nora's newfound interest in being told made-up stories, or in making them up with me. I entertained her for fifteen minutes the other day (note to those who don't have regular contact with two-and-a-half-year-olds: this is approximately equal to five hours in grown-up attention span time) by telling her, in suitably vague detail, what it was like when we went to the hospital and she was born. (As you might imagine, I focused heavily on the "cute new baby" part of the story and left out the gorier details of birth.)

But my favorite story times lately have been collaborative. The other night, Nora was coloring, or rather scribbling, with crayons, and said that she drew a goat and would like me to draw one, too. So I did, though it turns out I am not very skilled at drawing goats (I relied heavily on the suggestion of a beard to separate my goat from a sheep), whereupon a princess was demanded. And a little princess to go with her. And a king to be their daddy. And a baby boy and a baby girl, and a castle for them to live in. And then they were outside of the castle, and I asked where they might be going, and we ended up making up a story about where they might be going, all together, the princesses and the goat and the king and the babies: according to Nora, they went to San Francisco, where they saw a tower (which I drew) and needed to a get a kitty (ditto) and a doggie (ditto). And then they got on an airplane and headed to Morocco (I drew an airplane, which was deemed too small by my demanding colleague, so I drew a new version), where we decided they would have more adventures—to be continued.

The story was, I fear, a little short on plot, but long on character development—at least in the sense that the shift from Nora merely absorbing narrative to her creating it is a completely new development for her. She tells stories with wild abandon, sometimes making up little plots about her dolls, sometimes just recounting things that have happened. And the collaboration, too, is something new. Up to now, she has frequently bossed me into drawing something ("draw me a picture, Mama! Of a princess!"), but it's new for her to be drawn in, with questions, into weaving a story around them, or working together on the outcome. Come to think of it, it's rare for me as well. Maybe we're both joiners after all—as long as we've got the crayons out, anyway.