It’s almost ten o’clock. After much coaxing, I finally got my lovely, but oh, so stubborn, teenage daughter into her footed pyjamas, and into bed! She is lying there, on her back, with her wrists cuffed together in front of her. They are fastened to a leather belt, and her ankles are cuffed. I put a thick, black, velvet blindfold on her head, but don’t pull it over her eyes. Not just yet.
“Tell me a bed-time story, please!†she asks, looking at me with her big, hazel-brown eye.
“What? Tell you a bed-time story? Aren’t you just a tiny bit too old for that sort of thing?†At 15, we both know she is. But she also knows, I can’t deny her anything. She has me well and truly wrapped around her finger. And there is absolutely nothing, I can do about it. Even if I had wanted too.
Sitting in a chair beside her bed, I pretend to think it over. “Well, now let’s see. I know, how about the story, about Little Red Riding-Hood?†I pick that one, knowing my version is one of her two favourites (the other one being my version of Snow White), and always has been. Her eyes light up.
“YEAY!†she exclaims, sounding more like 5, than 15.
“Well, now let’s see,†I begin, gently pulling the blindfold over her eyes.
I use a squeaky or a rough voice, depending on who is talking. I use my own voice in between. I love hearing her giggle like the little girl, she’s just somehow become.
As the story progresses, she slowly drifts off to sleep.
I finish telling the story and tip-toe out of the room. Just as I grab the door-knob, she says in a drowsy voice;â€G’night, dad! Love you!â€
“Right back at ya, hun!†I whisper, as I close the door.