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Hello, I'm Cheryl and welcome to Sleep Tight Relax, a cozy bedtime podcast made especially for kids, but perfect for dreamers of all ages.
In tonight's story, we meet Max, a very creative squirrel with a simple plan, to paint a single acorn, just for fun.
But when word spreads through the forest, Max's quiet morning turns into a colorful whirlwind of requests from his animal friends.
With a little help, Max finds a new way to share his love of painting while keeping things peaceful, leading to the creation of a special spot called The Painting Place.
So why don't you get cozy in bed, close your eyes, and take a few great big belly breaths.
In through your nose, And out through your mouth.
As we begin tonight's story, the Painting Place.
Max was a particularly creative squirrel, as far as squirrels go, and he lived in a The nook had a perfect round window made from a knot in the trunk through which the morning sunlight spilled in like honey on toast. And speaking of toast, that's exactly what Max was nibbling as he sat cross -legged on his mossy cushion.
The toast cut neatly into triangle halves.
Each corner kissed with a dab of wildflower honey.
He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, staring at the golden dust motes floating in the sunbeam like tiny dancers.
Outside, a soft breeze stirred the leaves, and somewhere below, a woodpecker was trying to make up for a late start with some rather dramatic hammering.
Max stretched his paws toward the ceiling and gave a little yawn.
Today, he declared, as squirrels often do when struck by inspiration, I shall paint an acorn.
This was not entirely unusual.
Max loved painting, almost as much as he loved toast and honey.
He painted in the early mornings.
just as the forest was waking when the dew still clung to the branches and the birds were clearing their throats he painted in the afternoon sometimes too especially when the clouds were just right for thinking he padded across the branch to his art nook a hollow just outside his home that he had carefully transformed into a studio.
It wasn't much. Just a flat stretch of branch with a few jam jars filled with paint, a stubby brush made from thistle bristles, and an old leaf for blotting.
But to Max, it was perfect.
A pine cone cup sat at one end of the branch like tiny throne or the acorn he was about to choose.
His colours, mostly made from berries, bark, and the occasional beetle -friendly pigment, were neatly arranged by shade from leaf green to dandelion yellow to a brilliant splash of sunset red.
I think I'll paint an acorn today, Max said again, this time to his brush, which he gave a gentle pat.
Just for fun, I've got some leftover paint, and it seems a shame to let it go to waste.
He scurried back inside and rummaged through last winter's acorn stash, inspecting each one like a jeweler with a tray of gems. After much deliberation, he selected a perfect specimen, round, uncracked, with a slightly glossy cap that still smelled faintly of autumn.
Back on his branch he perched the acorn carefully in the pine cone stand the forest below whispered quietly, as if waiting to see what he'd create.
Max dipped his brush into a swirl of orange and began the first spiral.
The paint spread smoothly across the acorn surface and his tail twitched with delight.
This, Max said softly, is going to be a very good painting day.
Max was just adding a delicate swirl of blue across the bottom of the acorn, when he heard a familiar scritch, scritch, scritch of tiny claws on the bark.
He didn't look up right away, he was in the middle of a very satisfying curve.
But the sound grew louder, followed by a puffing voice calling, Max, Max, are you painting?
Max lifted his head just in time to see Barney, the chipmunk, scramble up the side of the tree and onto his branch, his cheeks full of something, possibly breakfast and his whiskers twitching with excitement.
Oh, oh, Barney squeaked.
stopping short as he spotted the acorn.
That is one beautiful acorn!
Look at the dots. Look at the spirals.
Max, you really are talented at painting.
Seriously, you should sell these or open a gallery or both.
I'd help. I could do snacks!
Max blinked, then smiled.
Thank you, Barney. But it's just a fun little project.
I had some leftover paint." Barney leaned in so close.
He nearly smudged the gold star Max was saving for last. Um, Max?
He said, suddenly shy.
Do you think, um maybe, uh you could paint something for me?
Max tilted his head.
What kind of something?
Barney dug into the side pocket of his leafy vest and pulled out a smooth round stone.
I found this by the stream yesterday.
It's my favorite. It's like extra round.
Don't you think it would look amazing with stripes?
Max looked at the rock then at his paint jars.
He still had a little green left. maybe even a dab of sparkly blue?
Well, he said slowly, I guess I could paint one rock.
Barney's face lit up like someone had handed him a whole pie.
Really? Oh wow, you're the best!
Do you need me to hold it or spin it?
I can spin it while you paint if you want.
That's not necessary, Max said kindly, and gently took the stone, setting it next to the acorn on his pine cone stand.
Stripes was it? Green and blue, or whatever you think you're the artist. As Barney sat down and chattered happily to himself, Max dipped his brush and began to work again, this time with an audience.
And somewhere in the forest below, a certain frog happened to hear the word painting carried on the breeze.
Max had just finished the last stripe on Barney's Rock, bold green bands with a glittery blue zigzag down the middle, when a soft boing caught his attention.
Did someone say painting?
asked Rosie the Frog popping gracefully onto the branch with a lily pad balanced perfectly on her back.
I thought I heard the word from the stream.
Barney now proudly polishing his newly painted rock with a tuft of moss grinned.
Max is painting look what he did for me." Rosie's eyes widened.
Oh, my goodness. It's gorgeous.
Max, you've got some serious skill.
Any chance you could do mine too?
She carefully slid the lily pad forward. Maybe some cheerful polka dots?
Mack hesitated. His brush was still wet, and he had just enough yellow and red left for few dots.
I guess I could do one more.
His peaceful morning was getting busier, but it was still fun to see others enjoy his art.
Oh, thank you, Rosie Beamed.
You're the best. As Max began dotting the lily pad with careful circles, he heard a shuffle and a snort behind him.
I heard there was some painting happening up here, said Tilly the badger, lumbering up the branch with a flat gray pebble clutched gently in her paws.
Would you mind giving this a little flair?
It's for the shelf in my den.
Max looked at the pebble, the lilypad, and the now dry rock sitting beside his acorn.
He looked at his paint jars.
Not much left but...
Okay, he said, wiping his brush on the old leaf.
Just one more. Max's tail twitched with a touch of worry.
His quiet painting morning was turning into something else entirely.
By the time Tilly's pebble had a neat silver border and a single red leaf painted in the center, the news had spread like dandelion fluff on the wind.
One by one, forest creatures appeared.
Junebug the fox, elegant as always, brought a smooth shell she had found near the pond.
Something swirly, she said, flicking her tail.
Maybe a little sparkle?
Hector the owl dropped off a feather.
It's plain, he said.
Could use a little pizzazz.
Daisy the raccoon wandered in with an old wooden spoon she'd found.
No idea what it is, she shrugged, but it'd be cute with stars!
The branch grew crowded.
Max's jars grew lighter.
His paws started sticking together with dry paint and someone had definitely dipped a tail into the lavender jar again.
It might've been Barney.
Then with a sound like a wobble thump thump, Ivy the skunk arrived, dragging behind her what appeared to be a log.
It's for my garden, she explained, slightly out of breath.
Just a little design on one end, nothing too fancy.
Max's eyes widened.
A log? Ivy nodded sweetly.
Just a small one. Max opened his mouth to reply but all that came out was a soft, confused squeak.
Somewhere beneath a pile of pine cones and painted feathers, his original acorn sat quietly, completely forgotten.
Max dipped his brush into what little was left of the sparkly blue, only to realize it wasn't sparkly blue anymore, it was purple and not the good kind, the kind that happens That's when everyone dips their brushes into the same jar without asking." His stomach growled, his head hurt.
His once peaceful morning had turned into chaos.
He sighed, then blinked down at his paws.
Both were stiff with dried paint, and his tail?
His poor tail was now streaked in yellow, pink and something suspiciously glittery.
He didn't even remember using glitter!
The branch, once so quiet and sun -dappled, now swayed gently under the weight of forest critters chatting, asking questions, passing feathers, balancing teacups, and in one case, chasing a squirrel who had absconded with a half -painted lunchbox.
Max hadn't eaten since breakfast. The honeyed toast felt like a memory from another life.
Someone bumped into him.
His brush slipped. A blot of gold landed right in the middle of Ivy's garden log.
Oops, someone squeaked.
Mack stared at the splatter, then at the paint jars, most of them empty or murky with mixing, then at the stump where he was supposed to sit, which was now holding a painted stick, three half -decorated mushrooms, and a raccoon wearing a smock.
His eyes drifted past them all and settled on the clearing beyond.
The forest no longer looked like a forest. The trees were streaked with swirls.
The stream sparkled green.
A trail of glitter snaked into the underbrush like a glittery worm.
And there, nearly hidden at the edge of it all, sat his beautiful acorn, his first quiet project, completely buried beneath a heap of pinecones someone had also painted.
Max's whiskers drooped.
He set down his brush, carefully, slowly, then sat on the edge of the stump.
His shoulders sagged.
His tail flopped beside him with a soft thud.
I just wanted to paint one acorn, he whispered.
No one heard him at first. Barney was trying to help someone dry a pebble with a daisy.
Rosie was hopping between painted lily pads humming.
Tilly was helping a younger badger adjust a star sticker on a log.
Everyone was busy. But then Barney turned, holding up a newly decorated spoon.
Max, want to see? Oh.
He stopped. Others turned too.
One by one, eyes landing on Max, slumped and paint splattered, surrounded by chaos.
Max didn't speak. He just stared at the glitter trail winding into the ferns.
His once peaceful studio now looked like someone had sneezed an art project across the entire forest. Barney stepped forward, his voice quiet.
We, umm, I think we got a little carried away.
Rosie hopped closer.
her polka -dot lily pad folded neatly under one arm.
We didn't mean to overwhelm you, she said gently, it's just, you were doing something so cool, we wanted to be part of it.
Max gave a small, tired nod.
It was fun at first, but now the forest looks like a birthday cake exploded.
Tilly sat beside him.
Maybe we can help clean it up?" Max didn't answer right away.
He looked around at the trees, the stream, the mushrooms, and the log with the glittery blotch. Yeah, he said at last, voice soft but sure, yeah, okay.
Cleaning up a painted forest is no small task, but the moment Max stood up, the others sprang into action, not with shouting or rushing, but with the quiet determination of friends who wanted to make things right.
Junebug the fox dashed off toward the stream and returned moments later, balancing a leaf full of cool clear water on her nose.
No spills, she beamed, setting it gently beside Max.
I've got more, shouted Bernie, who immediately tripped on a pine cone and sloshed a little down his front.
Rosie offered her lily pad like a sponge.
It's waterproof, and I already dotted it, so I don't mind if it gets messy.
Tilly lumbered in with an armful of old leaves and moss.
They'll work for scrubbing, she said, handing them out like sponges.
Even Ivy the skunk had found something useful.
The corner of an old towel she claimed she borrowed from a hiker once.
No one asked further questions.
Max was quiet at first, unsure where to start.
But then he looked at a mushroom cap, previously splattered with pink and orange, and gently dabbed it with the lily pad.
The paint lifted and beneath it, the soft speckled white returned.
He smiled. Just a little, but it was enough.
The animals spread out across the clearing like a team of tiny restoration experts.
Junebug gently rinsed feathers and puddles.
Rosie hopped between trees, scrubbing bark with her moss.
Barney became the paint patrol, carrying a stick with a flag that said, Drips, and pointed out problem areas.
Every time Max looked up, he saw something being wiped, rinsed or gently scrubbed clean.
He also noticed how many of the creatures were laughing, not loudly, not wildly, but with that kind of soft laughter that feels like a breeze through leaves.
They even left a few painted spots untouched.
A rock with a rainbow swirl, a tree knot with gold dots that looked like eyes, and Rosie's lily pad which no one dared disturb.
By the time the sun dipped low behind the trees, the clearing had started to look like a forest again, still a little speckled in places but calm, natural and loved.
Mack stood in the center, his tail now mostly one color again, and took a deep breath.
The air smelled like moss, bark, and just a hint of leftover paint.
Thank you, he said.
Barney bounced up beside him.
You're not mad anymore?
Max shook his head.
Not mad, just tired.
Tilly nodded. Then maybe tomorrow we can think about how to do this better.
Max's ears perked up, actually, I think I already have an idea.
The next morning Max rose with the sun and brushed the last specks of paint from his whiskers, he stretched, looked out over the freshly cleaned clearing and felt something he hadn't felt in a little while, excitement.
Not the wild, everyone -rushing -around kind.
A quieter kind. The happy feeling that made his paws tingle and whispered, Make something beautiful today.
He gathered his supplies.
Fresh jars of paint, rinsed and sorted by color.
A pile of clean brushes, one for each paw, a stack of leaf bladders, and most important of all, a sign.
He scurried to a flat stone near his art nook, a space big enough for several critters to sit side -by -side without tipping over.
He washed the surface until it gleamed, then laid out the brushes and buckets in a neat circle.
When the forest began to stir curious noses peaked out from behind bushes and branches.
Is this open? Rosie asked eyeing the setup with a hopeful look.
Max nodded welcome to the painting place.
He unrolled the sign and tapped it proudly into the ground beside the It read, The Painting Place.
One brush each. Clean up buckets nearby.
Only paint things that want painting.
Barney squinted at it what does that last part mean?
Max smiled, it means no painting trees or mushrooms or tails unless they give permission.
Oh said Rosie that's fair.
And we take turns," added Max.
No big lines, no rushing.
If someone wants something painted, we do it here.
And we do it together.
The animals nodded.
It sounded peaceful.
They began to sit down one by one.
Tilly brought a pebble, Junebug carried a feather, And Barney, who couldn't think of anything to paint, Simply painted his acorn hat a cheerful teal and wore it proudly.
Max dipped his brush and painted a sunburst on a rock.
Not because someone asked, Just because he wanted to.
Rosie added a blue raindrop beside it.
Tilly painted a tiny badger paw.
Soon the flat stone was dotted with color, but only right there where it belonged.
The rest of the forest stayed quiet and green.
The animals came and went, chatting softly, cleaning their brushes in the rinse cups and helping one another wipe smudges.
There was still laughter, but the kind that made room for others.
And best of all, no one dragged in a log.
When the sun began to lower and everyone wandered home, Max sat alone at the stone and pulled out one perfect acorn from his stash.
He painted slowly this time.
Speckles, stripes, a tiny smiley face near the bottom.
his brush moved with care.
The forest was quiet again except for bird songs and the gentle rustle of leaves.
This was exactly what he had wanted all along.
Perfect, he whispered.
Then he added a final sign beside the painting -place.
It was made of bark and written in purple ink.
It said, No squirrel too small, no acorn too plain.
And that somehow was the start of something very colorful.
If you're still awake, it's the perfect time to whisper something kind to yourself.
Take a deep breath, and in your mind or in a soft voice, say these gentle words.
I am proud of what I create, even if no one else sees it.
I can be kind to others and kind to myself too.
When things feel messy, I can ask for help to make them better.
The quiet moments are just as important as the busy ones.
I am part of something special and my voice matters.
I am calm, relaxed, and peaceful.
Good night, sleep tight.
