Last night, after three rounds of The Hungry Caterpillar, I told now two-year old MAS that he could have one more book, then, yes, yes, it was bedtime after all. (Now that he's in a toddler bed, bedtime has become a series of carefully orchestrated negotiations and trade-offs. More on that in the coming weeks, though.)
So MAS toddles off to the bookcase where a series of his books & ours live intermingled. He spends a good minute or two carefully scanning the choices before he selects one and bounds back to where I'm sitting, a shit-eating grin on his face.
"Read," he commands and hands me this:
