Dear Evan:

Right now, you want to hear scary stories at bedtime. (As a daddy who writes and loves scary stories, this makes me very happy.) For a while, I would read selections from Amphigorey, but lately you want made-up stories.

The thing is, you scare easily. If a bad guy appears on Wild Kratts, you cover your ears and leave the room. I’ve turned off movies and left theaters early. And that’s fine. You’re four years old. I don’t want you hardened to the scary parts of life like I am.

So I had to tell a story and make it, in your words, “scary but not too scary, just a little bit scary.”

Well, there’s the answer.

Of your dogs, by far your favorite is Lil’ Bit, a 14-pound rat terrier with a Napoleon complex. Bit’s breath is legendarily foul. It may be because he eats poop, or it may be because he’s just so damn grumpy all the time. His breath is so bad that it sort of circles around and becomes a thing of wonder. I’ll stick my face right down there and sniff his nose and mouth and ears.

What I won’t do is let him yawn in my face. That’s a registered biological weapon right there.

So here’s how my scary stories go: A monster that you choose threatens a little boy, and a certain rat terrier saves the day by yawning. An example from last night (your choice was “30 zombies”):

Once upon a time there was a spoooooky graveyard, covered in fog, with crooked gravestones everywhere. (I tell this in my best growling Vincent Price voice.) And do you know who lived under those graves?

(Your hands fly to your ears. Your eyes widen. You whisper, “zombies.”)

That’s right. Zombies. Thirty of ‘em. And these were mean zombies. They ate birds and rabbits and… hey, do you know what their favorite food was? (You shake your head.) Little boys.

So one night a little boy walked past the graveyard, and those thirty mean zombies clawed their way out of the ground and said to him, “Little boy we are going to eat. You. Up.”

(Here I’ve almost lost you. You’re about to panic, so I know it’s time to rein it in.)

But do you know who was walking with the little boy that night?

(Here I’ve found you again. Hands come off ears. A huge smile brightens your face.) “Little Bit.”

That’s right! Lil’ Bit was walking with his boy, and he took one look at those mean ol’ zombies and

(Here you and I both yawn.)

he yawned. And those zombies cried, “Oh God! It’s so stinky it’s even stinkier than we are!” And they turned into dust.

(Everything turns into dust after a Bit yawn, even werewolves.)

And that’s it. You laughed and ran back up the stairs to bed. Tonight you’ll ask again, and I’ll have to come up with a story again, and Bit will save the day.

Again.

I love you,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

We are all of us under a huge amount of stress right now. It’s never easy moving house (even if the result will be much more space for all of us). It’s even less easy when factoring in a 4-year-old who has only ever called one place home. We’ve started slipping, letting you watch hours of Paw Patrol and Octonauts while we pack or renovate or clean or fill out paperwork. Your behavior has gone downhill (though you’re still better behaved than most) and I’m ashamed to admit mine has as well. I am short; I lash out verbally more often than I’d like; I retreat into my own head during the few minutes of downtime I can manage.

I wonder whether you’ll remember any of it. I’ve hugged you and explained calmly what’s going on, and that it will all be better soon. I hope that mitigates some of the less good times. I hope that makes up for me snapping at you or asking you to go play alone in your room at times.

I moved around a bit when I was your age, though by 5 or 6 we had settled at the house where I spent most of my formative years. When I dream about a sense of home, that’s the form it takes: a small house in what was then a dusty neighborhood at the edge of a low-end bedroom community. When you are older, will you dream about the house we’re leaving? Will you find yourself back in the cream-and-brown safari-themed room you now occupy? Will you dream of toddling into the lavendar-walled office-slash-guest room, where I spend the first few minutes of weekend mornings playing online before you wake?

Or will your mind take you back to where we, at this point, haven’t been yet? I don’t know what your room will look like, outside the basic dimensions. I don’t know what we’ll do about the upstairs living area, or the large back yard. All good things, but I wish you could tell me, when you read this, send a hint back in time. I wish you could reassure me and take some of this stress off my shoulders.

I love you,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

I think you’re inheriting your daddy’s love for scary stories. Recently, you ask every night for a scary story — “but not *too* scary, just a little scary” — after we read books at bedtime.

Sometimes, I’m able to oblige, though I have to admit more often that I start in on what *I* think is only a little scary, and you plug your eyes and stop me right away.

(Looks like the Headless Horseman will need to wait another year.)

You may also have inherited your daddy’s love for storytelling. A few nights ago, we were driving home from errands and I heard from the back seat:

Halloween 2014

“…and the ghost became a *witch*… and the witch became a *monster*… and the monster became a *gob-uh-lin*… and the gob-uh-lin became a *pile of zombies*!”

All complete with dramatic enunciation and growly whisper. I laughed. “What are you doing, bug?”

“Telling a scary story.”

If you get an agent before I do, I’m just going to be crushed.

I love you,

Daddy