Good Night California...again, and again, and again.

I've read Good Night California 1,253,682 times to my daughter.  It's a cardboard, or "board book," meaning it's designed to withstand the strangely powerful destructive capabilities of members of the toddler persuasion.

Whatever.

Tonight, while Evie sleeps, I will be mending this book for the second time.  She's successfully removed the back binding, torn a chunk from the front page, and frayed one of the corners with excessive sucking.  Luckily, the folks who make board books understand that the binding is apparently annoying to toddlers (because they remove them), so the pages of the book have been reinforced.  She's close to removing the back page for the second time.  The only thing holding it to the rest of the book is a strip of packaging tape and fleeting hopes of a strand of paper linking the tape to the cardboard.

I can repeat the book by heart:  "Good morning, Pacific Ocean.  Good morning, surfers and pier.  Good morning, gray whales, spouting in the distance.  Are we ready to share a wonderful day?"

Last night, Evie and I went through her nightly ritual (brush teeth, wash face, play with sink faucets, disrobe, change diaper, put on pajamas, read three books, rock in rocking chair).  She usually picks which books she wants me to read to her.  Good Night, California is always on the reading list, but the other two books vary.  Sometimes we read Good Night, Moon, then Noah's Ark, then The Belly Button Book.  It changes. No matter what, Good Night, California is on the list.  However, last night Good Night, California was nowhere to be found in her little box of nighttime books.  I swear, I had nothing to do with it.  Maybe her babysitter hid it from her because she was just as sick of reading it to Evie as I am.

Evie went on the hunt.

She searched high (well, nothing over two and a half feet) and low for her beloved book.  I had no idea what she was doing.  She looked under her crib, around her toy chest, by her diaper pail, and in her closet.  It was no where to be found.  The funny thing is, she didn't complain.  There was no whining, no pointing to the air, no grunting in expectation that I'll understand what she wants.  She was methodical in her search.  She squatted to look underneath things. She got on her tip-toes to look on top.  And I just sat there in the rocking chair, no help at all.

Finally, with her chubby little hand on my leg to help her steady herself, she squatted next to me and ducked her head low enough to peer beneath the rocking chair.  She bobbed up and down a couple of times, then walked around the back of the chair one way, then the other in search of the best way to capture her prey.  Turns out, the best way was through the front.  With all the might her little body could muster, Evie pushed my legs out of the way, got down on all fours, and retrieved her beloved book.  There was no ceremony, no particular celebration to recognize the capture. She simply placed the book on my lap with a grunt.  I lifted her into my lap and we read her tattered Good Night, California, again.