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Wonk. Bummy-wup. Giffis.

Do you understand any of these words? If so, then congratulations, you are a member of my family.

(If you’re not, FYI: the words mean milk, tuck in for bedtime, and breakfast, respectively.)

It was only when I got married that I realized how unique my family vocabulary is.

Almost daily, I would say something that would be met with a blank stare by my husband. So much so that I had to compile a “family dictionary” translating the distinct words, phrases, and inside jokes frequently referenced by my family.

All families have stories to tell—whether it’s about the origin of an odd word like “giffis,” or about how Grandpa survived a battle in WWII or Grandma battled cancer or Uncle Joe battled raccoons at a family campout.

If you identify, refine, and share stories about your family—triumphs and challenges, quirks and strengths—you can make your family happier and more resilient and close-knit.

Why Family Stories Matter

Your kids may yawn or even roll their eyes at dinnertime when you trot out the story of, say, how you met their mother.

Or they may not get enough of those tall tales and beg you to repeat them every chance they get.

Whatever their response, a growing body of research shows that teaching children about their family history yields just about every benefit a parent could wish for their kids:
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So we’ve all heard parenting experts tell us that the one thing children need most to grow and thrive is unconditional love from their parents.

It is easy to say that we love our children when they are being good.

Figuring out how to love unconditionally when kids are being really difficult is quite another.

I thought that I had mastered the art of teaching my children compassion, empathy and the love of family. I thought that unconditional love came easily for me.

But that was before I opened my home to my little four-year-old foster son, who came to me kicking, screaming and daring me to love him.

The first time I saw Frank, my new foster son, was at the Loxahatchee Feed Store. His former foster mother was dropping him off. He was too spirited of a child for her and her mother to take care of, she had explained to me over the phone. The agency had thought of me.

The little boy in front of me did not smile. He was a little bit of a boy, with curly black hair and large brown eyes. His skin was the color of milk chocolate. I had fallen in love with him the very minute that I laid eyes on him.

On the second day of my new foster son’s arrival, I woke to the sound of screams. I ran to my living room. Frank had somehow broken my 16-year-old son’s fish tank. Glass and dying, flopping fish were scattered across my floor. Ethan picked up the fish and ran to our canal in a futile attempt to save their lives.

A few minutes later I found Frank heading down my driveway, his backpack and Spider man suitcase in tow.

“Where do you think you are going?” I asked him.

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