Once upon a time, when I was a little girl, I used to sneak into my parent’s room when I was roused in the middle of the night because of nightmares. Of course it was not always nightmares. Sometimes, I sneaked into my parents room because I wet the bed.
I never did favoured sleeping in the dark. It scares me. It scares me terribly when I’m alone in the dark, because daddy used to tell me that there are monsters in the closet, under the bed and inside the toilet bowl, waiting to come out to eat and bring naughty little girls away from their home if they don’t behave or stay awake pass their bedtime.
You see… I was no angel when I was a child. I was a little rascal. I was a rather opinionated child. I never liked to go to bed early, because I hate to sleep alone.
I was daddy’s little girl, and can often be found begging him to tell me bedtime stories over and over again. His stories were no ordinary fairy tales with dashing princes riding off into the sunset on a white stallion with pretty princesses in his arms. They are much better than fairy tales. Yes, they are much, much better. It usually started with “On a dark, stormy night, there was a nasty, horrible looking witch. She cackled and knocks on a castle’s door with her long, skull staff…the castle’s door creaked opened…”
Daddy’s stories are very interesting, but it often made me fear the dark. And so, when he’s too tired to tell me anymore stories, he would kiss me goodnight and join my mum in their bedroom. As soon as he closed my bedroom door, I would snuggle into the cover cuz I felt as if the monsters are watching me, waiting to claw on me and take me away from my mummy and daddy and feed me to the Goblin King.
Yes, my daddy might not know this, but his bedtime stories made my imaginations goes rampage. His stories may have scare me, but I will always ask him to tell me his made up stories over and over again. I could never grew tired of it, as it’s no ordinary stories. There are no ridiculous girls with glass slippers waiting for a prince to marry her or even a girl who fell asleep for a hundred years. There’s no such thing, but there’s adventures in each of my daddy’s stories.
I like those stories. Daddy was a great storyteller. It’s just too bad that he’s not an author. He would have made a great one. And you know what? I’m no longer a little girl. I’m all grown up now with family of my own, and yet, I still asked him to tell me those stories when I meet him every now and then…because those stories never had an ending. I wanted to know how it ended!
Unfortunately for me, it is up to me to imagine the endings, because my daddy hits me with the truth. He merely made up the stories as he goes. He told me, he doesn’t know how it actually ended and only continued to tell me bedtime stories when I was a little girl in hopes that I’ll grow bored of the stories and fall asleep. He didn’t know that his plans actually backfires and I got addicted to his bedtime stories.
Sometimes, I wish that I’m a little girl again. Daddy’s little girl, for I missed those bedtime stories, and the times where I can sneak into my parents room and I’ll be comforted when I wake up crying in the middle of the night because of nightmares.
Remembering my bedtime stories session with my daddy makes me wonder, how many of you out there takes the time to tell bedtime stories to your little children? Do you grace them with your presence in their bedroom and take some time to tell them stories? You might not know this… but simple things like a bedtime stories can be erected in children’s memories forever.
Cleffairy: I wonder, how many of the children in the modern and hi-tech era will grow up to tell others that their mummies and daddies told them bedtime stories?