If so , which one?
Dozens of them. But I wasn’t “told” – I was read to. And after not that long, I read myself to sleep.
Not often. At least, I don’t think so. I remember “Harold and the Purple Crayon” being read to me, and possibly “Goodnight Moon”.
However, for years, I would insist that I go to bed with “lullaby, back rub, prayer, and cuddle”, in that order.
Only if one considers “Get your ass to bed” a story of some sort.
My mother did read a bedtime story to me most nights for many years. Even though I could read before I entered first grade (didn’t go to kindergarten) I must have been well into the fourth grade before she stopped. We used to get those books of “365 Bedtime Stories.” To this day, I love being read to. When I hand someone a greeting card, I usually ask them to read it to me. I love for people to read articles to me, and I love audio books.
I’m reminded of this poem (which is in the public domain, so I hope it’s okay to quote the whole thing):
I was lucky enough to have The Hobbit read to me.
(I’ve since read it to my nephews and to the kids of a close friend.)
Yes, we had bedtime stories. All kinds of things from Dr. Seuss to The Hobbit. We continued the tradition with our children. When they started to squirm a bit about being too old to be read to, we switched it to everyone taking turns, so they got to read to us.
When I was young, my father read us bedtime stories - typically from this set, I think. He also made up stories to tell us, too. Don’t recall what age we were when he stopped. Probably by first or second grade, but I wouldn’t swear to it.
I was told they read Doctor Seuss to me too, but I don’t recall ever hearing any until kindergarten when I heard “Green Eggs and Ham” at nap time on the first day of school and I thought the boringest story ever. The same thing over and over again. For a while there, I was convinced the teacher read us the exact same story every single day. Looking back, I’d guess it was just more Seuss books - rhyming and without plot - and when I heard the second one it seemed just like the first one to me, and I just tuned out and never listened to the stories again.
My parents read to me a lot. So much, that I was able to read for myself at the age of three. My mother was shocked when I started singing to her from a songbook – which she assumed I was doing from memory – and I pronounced a typo as it was written: “For he’s a jolly good fellow, which nobody can demy.”
But I don’t recall specifically being read to at bedtime. I think she mostly read to me in the daytime. But it was so long ago, I can’t say that with confidence.
I love that you were such a discerning little tyke in kindergarten!
Yes.
During the day my Mother would also read children’s stories. I remember the Miss Pickrell series where each chapter would end in a kind of cliff-hanger. Then she’d close the book and say we’d do the next chapter tomorrow.
Of course, this drove me up a tree and made me want to not depend on my Mom to find out what happened next.
As a result I was reading by the age of 5. It didn’t dawn on what Mom was doing until years later.
One of my best memories of my father is when he read us to sleep when we were little. There were several volumes of fairy tales that we had, and I think those are what he was reading from. I was too little to remember most of them later, but one stuck with me, “East of the Sun and West of the Moon,” if only the name and some of the imagery.
My sister and I shared a room until I was maybe 6 or 7 years old, and I suspect this may have been his way to get us to quiet down and go to sleep instead of constantly bickering as we were wont to do.
I’m pretty sure Mom read us books when we were tiny but I don’t remember. I remember asking if she read them and made it interactive – what will happen next?! She said we memorized them almost immediately and so there was no surprise. But I mostly remember reading to myself after lights out when I wasn’t sleepy yet.
My father decided it would be a good idea to read The Divine Comedy to my brother and me when I was maybe six, but it was in the evening before bedtime. Then he’d show us the corresponding pictures. :eek:
My aunt told me stories about her childhood-- not about the Holocaust, but about being in America as an immigrant and the child of immigrants. She first started telling us these stories when I was five or so. It started with asking about some object, I think, and she was very surprised at how interesting we found these stories. Later, when I was about 9 she started telling me a little bit about he life during the Holocaust.
When I was a teenager, and I first moved in with them, she’d come into my room in the evening-- not really my bedtime, but usually after she’d gotten my youngest cousin to sleep-- to talk to me and make sure I was settling in OK, and she’d tell me more about her early life if I’d ask. She was very close to her mother at the time, and I was fascinated by it. I was also wrapped up enough in my own teenage stuff not to think so much about whether or not she wanted to talk about it.
But occasionally when I had migraines she’d hold my head in her lap with ice, after a took a darvocet, and talk to me until I fell asleep, and a lot of the stories would be about her childhood, or her mother’s childhood, without my asking.
My grandfather told me stories of his youth.
I remember only a few of them, sadly. I’d give a lot to have a recording of his tales.
Pretty much the same here. Maybe not quite so direct, but I have no recollection of bedtime stories for me or my brother (six years younger). I’m sure my parents must have rocked me and nursery-rhymed me to sleep as a toddler, but from the point that I’ve started having memories (like 4 and up), there is no recollection of any story reading happening.
My mother read me stories, the ones I remember most being Winnie the Pooh and Babar the Elephant and The Pokey Little Puppy. Eventually I’d memorize the words and recite them while turning the pages. I thought that was reading.
She also told me stories of her childhood, “back in the Dark Ages.”
I don’t remember my parents ever reading me bedtime stories, but I dearly remember me and my brother sort of making up our own.
We’d stay awake in the dark with our plush toys and come up with stories taking place in the “Magical Country”, where we both played a role and so did each of our plush toys. We improvised a different story every single night for years. There were recurring elements of course, like our characters, some villains and places we had invented but on the whole, it was: “Start a story and see where it takes us tonight.”
My parents bought a large story book that had 1 story for every day of the year. Each story was even dated.
One time my Pop read us a chapter each night from the original story of Pinocchio. It’s a lot creepier than the Disney version let me tell you.
Then there was The Cookie Tree, Zigg, Miss Suzy, and numerous Little Golden Books.
One book my Ma loved to read to us more than we cared for was Never Tease a Weasel.
The same for me. To be fair, I started reading for myself at a very early age, thanks to my older sister.