There’s been a distinct amount of ante-upping with our book reading tonight. I read We’re Wearing Out the Naughty Step to entice Monkeyface from quivering in the corner onto the potty. Mrbookandbed read Everybody Poos which never fails. This coaxed her out and onto the toilet. Afterwards I read We’re Wearing Out the Naughty Step as I lay down next to her in order to get her onto the mat to get cleaned up. And I read it again as she bounced up and down on me painfully before bedtime. I especially loved it when she proclaimed “Sorry, Mrs Booby” after she’s landed heavily on my right breast. “Never mind, I got a craster for you…”
She’s gone to bed now. There comes a time in every toddler’s life when the stories read to them over and over are just not enough. I’m typing this at 9.20 BST with the sounds of the Monkey making up her own songs and stories screeching around our home. Her stories are like a dream – snatches of what she’s encountered during her last few days, snatches of whatever she’s seen on TV, segments of books she’s memorised and whatever she’s insisted she cannot sleep without. Tonight the story is one part silly robot, one part stacking cup and ball, three quarts We’re Wearing out the Naughty Step, a dash of poo, a pinch of shiny red shoes. Her songs sound like experimental jazz. If only one could peer into her dreams, I’d bet they look like the 60s.