...there was a telephone. And a red balloon. And a picture of...
I know this book by heart. Goodnight Moon, by Margaret Wise Brown. I have read it to you almost every night since you were born. Well, at least since you've been sleeping in your own room, which was around 6 months. I exaggerate.
The point is, I love reading it to you. Such a simple book, such a simple idea... saying goodnight to objects, to the air, the stars, to nobody. You love it too. (Isn't this a nice letter?)
Until recently. You're smart now, you're figuring things out. You know that Goodnight Moon means, BED TIME. Now, as you turn the pages - something you've done since you were very little - you turn them with such intensity, it's almost as if you're punching them. That's exactly it, you do not turn pages, you punch pages. It makes me giggle, which makes you shoot me a look of "this is not funny, MOM."
Oh well, it's still our special time, and our special book... even if you are trying to destroy it with your fists.