“How many can you count to little one?”
“Oh lots and lots, mummy.”
“Do you want to tell me,”
A furious look of concentration takes over her features and she splays out her fingers in front of her eyeline.
In a delicious three year old voice she calls out,
“One, two, free, four, ive, ix, heaven, eight, nine and ten.”
As proud as punch she closes her hands and smiles at me triumphantly.
“See mummy, I am so clever.”
Giving my beautiful baby a hug I murmur in agreement.
“You are not clever, mummy, you are silly.”
Hmmm, the conversation seems to have taken an unplanned turn.
“That’s not nice,” I reply in my singsong voice that I reserve for moments like this.
“But true mummy, and I must. Not. Tell. Fibs.”. The pronunciation on the last line is particularly pronounced – lord only knows where she got that from.
My competitive edge starts to mutter under its breath and although my foe is merely a metre tall I still retort.
“Actually, I can count to 1000.” I boast.
Truth be told I can count much higher, but I didn’t want to make her feel really inadequate.
She fixed me with a glare that could melt glaciers.
“See, you are silly. Everyone knows 1000 is not a real number, not like 2 or 10. Now stop trying to beat me and read me a story.”
I literally have no words to response…
So I read the story.