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BEDTIME STORIES  
JoAnn Conrad 

Conventional ethnographies portray a reality with limited complexity—from 
the singular perspective of the ethnographer observing the object engaged in 
events external to the observer. The multiple voices or personalities of the 
ethnographer are never invoked nor is the complex relationality of the 
object(s) and the ethnographer(s) to each other and to their situatedness in a 
context that is dynamic and dependent on their presence. In contrast to such 
ethnographies, in this article it is the process of investigation into the central 
question—the puzzle concerning the nature of the mother-child 
relationship—that is the main diegesis. This is a description; an investigation 
into the parallel, complex emotional relationship between a mother and 
child; an unfolding of the intertwined development of two characters' 
feelings and sometimes conflicted emotions, probing into the nature of the 
relationship of the characters in which the historical and psychological 
depths of that relationship are revealed. In unraveling the nature of this 
relationship, the rigid, separate and hierarchical polarity of other and self 
(ethnographer) is deconstructed. There is, in fact, no simple monolithic self 
to act as a referent to an equally monolithic other. The revelation undermines 
the construction of such an other and uncovers the dilemma inherent in the 
entire ethnographic enterprise which masquerades as representation. The 
inevitable categorization, distillation and oversimplification of reality in any 
such representation belies its complexity. 

In this ethnographic enterprise, the mother's questions on the nature of 
close relations parallel, reflect, and illuminate the son's stories. The 
development of the sensibilities of the characters in the piece is brought out 
in their juxtaposition—reflecting as well as motivating one another. 
Following the search for understanding into the deepening sensibilities of 
both characters is the main story line—anchored in no time or space other 
than that of the characters themselves. Here time and space are reorganized 
to maximally illustrate the search, and yet the puzzle that is the nature of the 
relationship remains unsolved. Rather that being provided with a description 
or portrait of "reality," we have in the multi-layered interaction between 

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Conrad 

mother and child a powerful analogy for the complexities and 
unresolved questions that are, perhaps, the nature of existential reality. In 
the play of surface and depth, the particular and apparently trivial moments 
of story telling are transcended, and through the allegory of the local and 
incidental lend substance to another level—the anecdotes themselves and 
the descriptions of story telling episodes overflowing their own boundaries. 

* * * 

It's early morning. I lie awake in bed staring at the 
wall opposite me. Something is wrong, something out of 
place. . . on any other morning I'd be in bed with mommy, 
after Pop has left for work. . . but mommy is not in bed. 
My door is closed, but I can hear voices, a lot of voices on 
the other side in the living room. They are hushed, and I 
can't make out any words, just strained, worried sounds. . . 
. is someone crying? . . . Why is George out there? He 
never wakes up this early. . . . something is . . . Pop is 
dead. I'm not getting up. . . I'm not getting out of the bed or 
moving at all. As long as I stay here and don't go out there 
he's not dead, it's still part of last night and I've just gone 
to bed first. . . they just haven't gone to bed yet. I'll just 
stay here and things won't change. 

I shuffle down the hall and the living room opens out 
in front of me. Faces turn and expand and fill the space. 
My mom is all red..."Oh, Josie . . . there's something I 
have to tell you. . ." 

CONRAD-George Fredrik, on  
Dec. 14 Born in Kaiserslautern, 
Germany. Chief Engineer,  
Coronado Ferries. Survived by  
wife, Mary Rita, two sons and one 
daughter. Services at Sacred Heart 
Catholic Church, Coronado, 10:00 
AM. 

* * * 

44 



 

Bedtime Stories 

"Whew, hee, hee, hee. Whew, hee, hee, hee. Whew, 
hee, hee, hee." The pain is rising up from the base of my 
abdomen, rising and taking me with it. I try to resist, to 
stand my ground, but it's useless. Quickly, in rapid 
succession, nothing, nothing, then screams, arms flying, 
mouth foaming, eyes rolling, dry heaves. . . ok, ok, it's 
over again. 
 "Her blood pressure is going up; let's get her 
 to lie down." 
 "Nooo. Please, it hurts too much to lie down!" 
 Before I'm fully supine, the pushing starts 
and the pressure is relieved. Push, push, push, hurt, hurt. . . 
and then. . . emptiness, relief. . . and a tiny cry. 

A wet mass is placed on my breasts. Placental blood is 
caked on his hair, but his eyes are bright and he is perfect. . 
. but where did he come from. . . ? Can it be possible that 
this beautiful creature caused so much pain? 

PETRABORG— Conrad Fredril,  
on May 15,12:20 PM at Alta Bates 
Hospital, to parents Guy Petraborg 
and JoAnn Conrad of Berkeley. 

A circle is closed. I try to understand what love is, how it shapes the 
ones it touches. I know that there is an intimacy I shared with Conrad, and 
for me, part of it is shaped by the physical link I alone have with his creation 
and initial nurturing. But does this mean that his father cannot access this 
intimacy, or that Conrad even reciprocates it? How does that reconcile with 
my own bonding with my father, however short-lived? No, . . . I think 
motherhood provides access to such feelings, but they are not immediate or 
necessarily forthcoming. Does a child experience love differently? Is it 
dependency? Does it derive from a need for pleasurable experiences? What 
constitutes an utterly un-selfconscious love? And can the pain of separation 
ever not be implicit in such emotions? 

45 

,..,._u. 



 

Conrad 

46 

OK, now the lights are out, and we're finally winding 
down. Why do they portray going to bed as such a quick 
process in the movies? The mom and dad just come in, tuck 
their kid in, kiss him goodnight and close the door. No 
hysterics, no crying. . . what planet does that happen on? 
Lying down and talking to Conrad once he has settled 
down is so much fun. . . it makes me feel guilty at the same 
time because I can like him so easily in these non-trying 
times. God, I wonder how many parents actually lie down 
with their four-year-old kids... and fall asleep with them? 
Maybe it's a big conspiracy. . . everybody does and 
nobody admits to it. It's like the TV versions of delivery. . . 
women looking radiant—yeah, right. 

"Hold still, you wiggle-worm!" He still fits neatly into 
the curve of my body when we lie together. I have my 
head resting on his outstretched arm in a gesture that 
seems almost paternal on his part. I really want to be quiet, 
I want to fall asleep this way, even though I'm supposed to 
get him to sleep and go out and do some work. But he 
wants to tell stories. He wants to keep this going, afraid of 
going to sleep. Is he afraid of this transition to the 
unknown? Or is he just trying to test the limits imposed on 
him, to see how set they really are? Oh man, this fat cat 
Fred is back on the bed between my legs. . . . Now I'm 
pinned in between him and Conrad. I can feel my neck 
twisted in an unnatural and uncomfortable position and I 
want to move, but fear my movement will get Conrad 
worked up again. . . . I'll have a crick in my neck in the 
morning. 

"Turn on the light, mommy." 
"No, I'm not turning the lights on, it's bedtime." "But I 
can't hear with the lights off. I need the lights on." 



 

Bedtime Stories 

Light comes into the bedroom from the living room 
beyond, faintly illuminating the forms and figures in the 
room. The lights from cars passing by in the street outside 
penetrate the space between the window frames and the 
shades, and large shards of light pierce the space and travel 
in circular patterns across the walls. The central bed, 
heaped with small figures and stuffed animals, is 
surrounded by the vestiges of day-time activities: art 
projects, clothes, clean and dirty intermixed and strewn 
about, puzzle pieces, books, ropes, balls, chairs, a small 
table. . . their indistinct shapes occasionally sharpened and 
given color by the lights from the street. 

I'm settled in under the covers of Conrad's double bed, 
lying on my side facing him. He is lying on his back, with 
his legs over the covers. He's still wiggling around and is 
physically engaged in the story telling. I like to watch his 
profile with the upturned nose and the full cheeks. I like 
the warmth his body gives up, and try to get closer to enjoy 
that, while not getting a stray arm or leg in the face. This 
warmth has gained Conrad a number of nicknames: 
"warm-bug," "heater," or, perversely, "the human worm." I 
luxuriate in his smell, my favorite aspect of our intimacy. . 
. it smells of young skin, wet hair, light sweat, and faintly 
of soap. Later in the evening, after he has been asleep for 
some time, thrashing about in his bed, I'll tuck him in 
again, and the freshly-washed sweetness will have been 
replaced with a stronger scent, one that I much more 
emphatically associate with my son. The sweetness of my 
intimacy with Conrad, the luxury of his soft skin, shared 
conversation and baby smell is heightened by its 
fleetingness. 

This is the final act of a regularly enacted ritual that includes a bath, 
nude dancing, acrobatics on the bed, diapering under duress, putting on pjs, 
brushing teeth, drinking water, reading stories in bed, and finally, lights out 
with a long period of 

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Conrad 

talking and storytelling in the dark. The stories unfold slowly, interspersed 
with conversation about the day's routines. Initially the narratives are 
informed by cartoon figures and plots, but Conrad quickly begins to fill in 
with his own story lines, which open up aspects of the world of his thoughts 
that are otherwise unarticulated. He wants to tell these stories, partly because 
he wants not to go to sleep, but also because they are a means of 
communication for him. They are encoded messages for me to decipher, if I 
expend the effort to really listen to what he is saying. 

I don't want to tell any stories. I just want to go to sleep.  
I hope he tells me one soon. 

"Hey mom, you know what?" 
"What?" 
"Ahmad got a Beetle-Man and him gonna share with me at 
school." 
"Cool! So, why don't you tell me a story?" 
"I don't know any stories. . . " 
"Well you do. . . ." 
"OK. One a time, [A]laddin, urn . . .Genie, and a who? 
Abo and what is that birdie name?"  
"Yago?" 
"And what is the green one's name?" 
"Oh, I dunno . . . that bird?" 
" Yeah." 
"Oh, yeah, I dunno." 
"Yes you do." 
"No." 
"You saw it afore." 
"I know but I never knew the name." 
"Why? It's Yago's mommy, really." 
"Oh, OK." 
"Her talk to Yago. The mommy. . . " 

Conrad slows down here, pauses, and then speeds 
up, and delivers the following in a much quicker, louder 
and more assertive tone. 

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Bedtime Stories 

"And Yago have the daddy and a mommy. Cause, after, 
um, Yago didn't have a mommy and a daddy. . . ? 
" Yeah?" 
(said as if crying himself)"Him be crying."  
"Yeah. . . ?" (sympathetically). 
"And after him have a mommy and a daddy. . . him said, 
'yeah! yeah! yeah!'." (Conrad's arms are raised over his 
head, and he jubilantly shouts.) 

49 

Oh God! He's stressing over the transitions, anxious 
about our separations. We try to squeeze in too much. . . 
school, jobs, commitments. . . there is no time to do 
anything as a family. Our schedule is erratic. No wonder 
he is telling these stories, no wonder he drags out going to 
bed. It may be our only set routine, and he exercises some 
control over the situation. But isn't he doing more than 
that. . . it's too easy to say he's anxious. . . he's trying to get 
a grip on the whole thing. . . his relationship with us, with 
the rest of the world. . .trying to figure out how he fits in to 
all of this. It is just ego gratification to dismiss this as 
separation anxiety. . . do kids really depend on us as much 
as we want them to? He's dealing with the conflicting 
emotions of dependence and independence. His stories 
reflect this. Having us around is not always so great. 

Conrad sighs. 
"Tell me a story. . . hmm . . . my story is short." "It's good 
though." 
"One upon a time a snake came, and got [A]laddin on him 
back. And Yago and. . . ate all the other guys. . . (smacks 
his lips and pretends to eat for ten seconds). And when 
[A]laddin got all the way to him face, the snake ate him. 
And Princess Jasemin came up, "shweh", the snake. . . . 
Hey, what is that moving? The house is moving. . . ." 
"Really? I didn't feel anything. . . " 
"I feel it moving. (Big sigh) And then her, Princess  
Jasemin came all the way to him face, 'swish, 



 

Bedtime Stories 

also). Then them went back home. And then the school 
was open and it was fixed. And then the 
Gargoyles came back and saw it was fixed and they wrecked 
it again. That's it." 

Here I am trying to resolve my contradictory feelings towards Conrad, and it 
looks as if he is trying to do the same thing. He is trying to balance his 
feelings of dependency and love with those of a desire to be independent and 
to extend his social sphere beyond just us. In the first story school is a good 
place. The kids are sad when they can't get in, and happy when they can get 
in to play-without the teachers. This is wish fulfillment, freedom within a 
safe, familiar environment. The second story complicates the vision of 
school. School is the site of the most traumatic transition and separation on a 
routine basis. It is the separation from me that Conrad loathes, not the social 
interaction at school. Seen as the source of this separation anxiety, school is 
therefore the logical target of some pretty heavy aggression, and a desire to 
see the source of the enforced separation eliminated—permanently. 

"Mom, when did you get married?" 
"Oh, a long time ago." 
"Well I don't want you to be married." 
"Why not?" 
"Because when you're married you talk with one voice, 
you're one person." 
"No, honey, I'm always mommy. What do you want?" 
"I want there to be mommy, and daddy and Conrad." 

Although I know that I can't grasp the full intention of his statement, the 
depth and profundity of them strike me, undermining my initial musings on 
his stories and exposing my patronizing attitudes towards his narratives in 
reducing them to such simplistic, formulaic interpretations. Conrad 
recognizes human complexity and the complexity of human relations. His 
articulation of this perception in turn sharpens my own. His desire not to be 
subsumed into a unifying experience or relationship echoes the attempt to 
interject complexity into ethnographic 

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Conrad 

description, to eschew essentializing, simplifying accounts and analyses. 

"OK, it's time to go to sleep now. Turn over and go to 
sleep." 
"I want you to sleep with me." 

Another separation, compounded with being scared of 
the dark. I hate the separation as well and would rather 
stay in bed with him, but I feel that I should have him go to 
sleep by himself. Am I afraid of the closeness, or am I 
following the dictates of society that assigns a certain 
stigma to a mother-son relationship perceived to be too 
close. I want to rebel, to act as my impulses direct, but 
something gnaws at me that he is too old, that the long 
term consequences are not good. Why? I turn over and 
close my eyes. Conrad turns towards me, press his face up 
to mine and kisses me. 
"Good night, mom." 
"Good night, Boo-boo. I love you."  
"I love you too." 

* * * 

Conrad and I began telling stories to each other naturally. These stories 
were in addition to and quite separate from reading books. The stories were 
often in collaboration, and at the very least provoked response, criticism, and 
correction. They were dynamic and tended to revolve around everyday 
events, retold in dramatic, exaggerated form. For a long time, my interest in 
these stories was entirely personal: I liked to encourage Conrad's ability as a 
storyteller, I physically preferred to tell or listen to a story rather than read 
one, and it gave us a special context of shared intimacy. I began to become 
intellectually interested in Conrad's stories during my investigations into the 
various theories on the formation and transmission of folk and personal 
narratives. Was there a deeper structure inherent in narratives that could be 
seen to have parallels in children's own stories, in the same way that deeper 
language structure was inferred in the processes of first language 
acquisition? Would it be possible to extrapolate, as Botvin and Sutton-Smith 
have 

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Bedtime Stories 

suggested, narrative structure from children's narratives? Contrary to the 
expectations embedded in these questions, however, in the course of our 
storytelling events it became obvious that both thematically and structurally 
Conrad's narratives were already quite formalized, and that extrapolating a 
deeper, inherent narrative structure from those of an as yet "uncontaminated" 
or "pure" narrative form of a child was an exercise with a flawed premise. 
What did emerge, as the writing and analysis of the project unfolded, was 
that embedded in such small, specific narratives and their telling was a much 
more complicated macro-narrative: the mother-son relationship. There are 
many stories within stories. 

Michel Foucault has claimed that the "author function" serves to 
disperse simultaneous, plural selves, which exist nonhierarchically (112-13). 
In this experimental and impressionistic piece, both the subject and the 
object are multiple and shifting, and in the shifting of voice and the 
laminations of time we discover an erasure of the boundaries inscribed by 
the categories themselves. Subject and object are not only multiple, they are 
constantly invoked and intertwined, and as their sensibilities unfold in 
patches and chunks of scenes and variations in texture, so the reader is 
drawn into these sensibilities. In this manner interiority flows from 
exteriority; the reader breaking through the opacity of the individual 
narratives into a reality to which she has only partial access. 

WORKS CITED 

Botvin, G.J., and Brian Sutton-Smith. "The Development of Structural Complexity in 
Children's Fantasy Narratives." Developmental Psychology 13 (1977): 377-88. 

Clifford, James. "On Ethnographic Allegory." Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics 
of Ethnography. Ed. James Clifford and George Marcus. Berkeley: U of California 
P, 1986. 98-121. 

Foucault, Michel. "What is an Author?" The Foucault Reader. Ed. Paul 
 Rabinow. New York: Pantheon, 1984. 101-20. 
VanMaanen, John. Tales of the Field: on Writing Ethnography. Chicago: U 
 of Chicago P, 1988. 
White, Hayden. Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism. Balti- 
 more and London. Johns Hopkins UP, 1978. 
Young, Katharine. Taleworlds and Storyrealms:The Phenomenology of Nar- 
 rative. Dordrecht, Boston, Nijhoff. 

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