Bedtime Reading

I heart this book.

Don't worry; this isn't a review or plug of some sort. My alter ego is not Dorothy Edwards. If it was, I wouldn't be here writing to you lot for free.

I spotted this book in our loft recently, when digging about amongst Spirograph, Mr Pop and Fashion Wheel, and all the other stuff I've kept that will one day be suitable for The Poop. 

It was bought for me twenty years ago, when I acquired my very own Naughty Little Sister. After having been an only child for the first eight years of my life, I think it was supposed to make me feel less maligned, neglected, ignored and replaced. This book (and Mr Pop) were my only friends. 

*cries hysterically for two hours, then returns to writing the blog post*

After reading it to my eight year old self in order to heal some of the shunned sibling sadness, I read it to my own Naughty Little Sister in order to curry favour with the new focal point of the family. And clearly the teacher/swot/irritating little sod in me was already looming, as, when I dug the book out for Betty recently, I discovered these scribblings-

DL = Didn't listen
NF = Not finnished*
(presumably these chapters were expected
to have been penned in a rather more Nordic language)

How I quite decided whether a three month old was listening or not is an interesting proposition. Maybe she drooled quite notably during that chapter? She pooed half way through? Or perhaps her critique on the realisation of inherent authorial intent was not sufficiently insightful? Either way, I had coded the chapters to indicate the favoured child's progress through said hardback. 

However somewhere between my passive/aggressive scribblings and my young northern accent reciting old fashioned tales of scoldings and eiderdowns and chimney sweeps and petticoats, I discovered that my own Naughty Little Sister found total calm and relaxation when being softly read to. Which meant she'd go to bed, and I'd get my Mum and Dad to myself again.

So every night, for the past two weeks - I have read two pages aloud to The Poop, and, without fail...

Kerching

Then I get Dave to myself again.

(He's much cuddlier than Mr Pop - though his facial features consistently remain in the same places, which, as you can appreciate, is more than a slight disappointment.)