It’s happened twice this week.
The first time, we sat cuddled on the couch in the girls’ room after nap, reading a story about Lilypet.
Lilypet is a pristine white field mouse who disobeys her mommy and wanders away from their house in search of adventure. She tries to make friends with some animals on a farm, but they are scared of her. She runs away from the farm, only to come face to face with a tom cat. She narrowly escapes the cat, only to then realize she’s lost.
At that point in the story, I glanced at Baby A, and her little chin was trembling, tears welled in her eyes.
“It’s OK!” I told her, turning the page. “Look! See, Lilypet finds her way home, and here she is with her mommy, safe and warm.”
Despite the picture of the happy ending, Baby A was quite upset, crying. She climbed into my lap and burrowed her face against my shoulder. We had to put the book away and move on to something else.
A day or so later, the girls asked to read from the book of fairy tales they got for Christmas. Judging solely by the pictures they insisted on reading “the one with the ducks”, The Ugly Duckling.
Given what had happened with the Lilypet story, I was trying to temper my usually-impassioned style of reading, and hurry through the sadder parts. But my efforts were to no avail. We made it to the part of the story where the ducks are teasing the baby swan, and Baby A lost it again.
Of course I don’t like to see her upset – and I’ll try to be more discerning about what stories we read for a while – but oh, how I just want to wrap her tender little heart in the softest blanket and cuddle my baby girl forever.