One evening when my kindergartner was about two years old, a friend came over and read her Don’t Let the Pigeon Stay Up Late, part of Mo Willems’ charming series about a spunky, wisecracking bird. About halfway through, the protagonist, unsuccessfully trying to convince the reader that he’s so totally not tired, opens up his beak and lets loose a huge, two-page-spanning, all-caps YAWN! which my friend – childless and accustomed to reading silently – dispassionately read as a word. My daughter looked at him like something had moved in the wastebasket, then demonstrated a properly theatrical interpretation, its force so strong it straight up tipped her over.
“Dat how da pigeon yawns,” she scolded, as she righted herself and waited for him to continue.
