The Scribbly One

On the bus back from Penang the other day, there was a couple with a small child sitting across the aisle from me. The young one was perhaps three or four years old; I’m terrible at estimating children’s ages. He was the most well-behaved and adorable little boy, not at all one of those noisy, shouting-at-the-top-of-his-lungs, I-want-this-and-I-want-it-now types who seem to be taking over the earth. My first thought? This is one very secure little boy.

The affection between parents and child was obvious. What captured my attention, though, was the way his father, especially, laughed with him, played with him, talked with him. And I thought, I want a man who will be that kind of father to our children. Strong, yet tender. Affectionate and openly loving.

Today I read something which gave me the same kind of feeling.

“Tell the Tree Story, Daddy!” the Brownie cried, who was still pink-cheeked and ebullient at the idea of having picked the tree that was now on our roof.

“Well, you know we used to go up on the hill to get our tree,” I said.

“No, tell about the time you were poor and had to sell the trees for Christmas moneys,” the Brownie insisted. “And how the truck broke down, and about the hat, and the brook, and how your weiner fell off–”

“Okay!” I agreed, just a couple of words too late.

Her Lovely Self gave me one of those oh-boy-here-we-go-again looks…

I want a man who will tell stories to our children. Family stories are a kind of heritage and should have a special place in each person’s childhood memories. My father is a taciturn man, self-contained, stern. I got all my stories from fairytales, and, later, Enid Blyton books. Till today, the number of stories I have from my parents are pitifully few. Perhaps that’s the reason I blog - to store up my stories, so that I’ll be reminded of the stories I have to tell.