Rhyme time, what a lovely idea. Take baby or toddler along to your local library once a week for half an hour of familiar songs and enthusiastic hand gestures. Sounds good, sign me up. Little did I know that from the earliest age BUB.1 didn’t give a sh*t if Polly put the kettle on and would rather climb the bookshelves, mount the CD racks and menace the job seekers in the quiet computer section than sit still for even five seconds.
The library at Watson’s Bay in Sydney is delightful, perched on the sea’s edge, little tea shop next door, French doors opening out onto an outdoor area where we’d all gather, treasured infant tucked into lap, awaiting the classic rhymes of our childhood to be passed to the future generation.
Perhaps BUB.1 was embarrassed that first time by the fact that his mother was the only one to make a loud, realistic snorting noise during Old MacDonald rather than make what she now knows is the customary polite “oink oink”.
All I know is he never again stuck around long enough to hear me do it again.