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This morning I went to pick up a package from our Sorting Office on the way to work. I was dropped off on the way to nursery, so H knew what was going on.

After I’d picked her up this evening she asked about the package. I told her I’d got two books.

“Are they for me?” she asked
“No, they’re mine” I replied

Cue one almost-three-year-old with tears streaming down her face, heartbroken that the two books in my package – which she’d by now convinced herself were in fact ‘Topsy & Tim Meet The Firefighters’ and ‘Topsy & Tim Meet The Police’ (I know, I know, heartbreaking stuff there, right?) – were all mine.

As it was the books really were hers, and I handed them over once we were home, she fortunately forgot I’d tricked her. She also forgot that they weren’t the two Topsy & Tim books she wants (as let’s face it, when you have 20-30 Topsy & Tim books you always want the ones you don’t have, right?). So now I get the parental guilt thing and wonder whether I should just… errr… order them in for her birthday? See, I’m not actually making this any better!

At least it’s books rather than things from adverts, I guess. But still. Talk about spoilt, and I don’t help matters one bit.

Oh, and she loves ‘Foxy’ and ‘Come to School Too, Blue Kangaroo!’ thank christ.