It was 6.30pm and I was eager to get my beautiful, tired toddler into bed. With an evening of writing work stretching ahead of me, I knew I had a small window of opportunity before we found ourselves on a one-way journey to Tantrumville.
“I want book Mummy,” said Frog. Of course she did, it was bedtime. It’s to be expected.
“I want story Mummy,” said my daughter. Again, this is no big revelation. I wasn’t about to read her The Oxford English Dictionary.
“I want Willy Tuppy book Mummy,” stated my toddler, in a matter of fact tone.
Alarm bells were ringing. I hadn’t invested in any kind of educational body book yet. She’s only two years old for crying out loud. What was this “Willy Tuppy” book she was so keen on?
“I WANT WILLY TUPPY BOOK NOW MUMMY!” Shouted my beautiful child.
Panic started to set in. I was unfamiliar with this particular story. Was it a favourite we’d read together before? Had I been so tired I’d cast aside any memory of a book about female and male genitalia? I’m sure I wasn’t that exhausted. But…
“Mummy! Listen me! Willy Tuppy book! Now!” She was getting irate.
“I tell you what,” I stalled for time. “Why don’t you go and get me this book you’re so set on.” I smugly congratulated myself on my foresight and quick thinking.
She trotted off, happy in the knowledge she was finally going to get her bedtime wish. The “Willy Tuppy book” was within reach.
And then she handed me a book with these familiar faces on the cover:
To a toddler “Willy Tuppies” made perfect sense.