Annika Mock

Once upon a time there were four little rabbits and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail and Peter. They lived in a burrow underneath a very big fir tree.

We finished the book late, at around 10pm. No matter, I’d been looking forward to this all week. I’ve always said storytime is a highly underrated part of nurturing a child’s imagination. My fondest childhood memories are of picture books and the quiet splendour of slipping into an entirely different world. Because we read a little more today, my boy was starting to doze off before Mr McGregor could catch the mischievous bunny on his farm. We’ll have to save that for tomorrow. 

“Goodnight Peter Rabbit,” I cooed as I kissed my boy on the head, taking in his freshly shampooed hair. I tucked him under quilt covers and booped his little nose as he stretched out against the head board. “Goodnight Mommy,” he whispered mid-yawn. 

I picked up the book and dusted it carefully, hugging it to my chest. I’m glad my parents had the good sense to keep this edition. Now, it was little David’s turn to discover a love for the intrepid, adventurous little rabbit. Surveying the outline of his form under the duvet, I was struck by the weight of my responsibility. It's all up to me to set a good example for this child, I refuse to squander this opportunity. I tread quietly to the other side of the bed to switch off the lamp before tiptoeing my way to the door.

Under the covers, I heard David stifle a yawn as he murmured: “I wish I were a bunny.”

I froze at the door frame. Finally. Spinning around to face the bed, I found two earnest eyes staring back at me. This one was a tough nut to crack but we got there eventually, thank god. I simpered: “Oh sweetheart, you’ll be one soon enough, don’t you worry. We’ll take care of everything. Now rest up for a big day, my sweet Peter Rabbit.”

There was hardly any time to savour this win. I shut the door behind me and bounded to the next room, where another child was crying for a bedtime story.