One Wednesday evening, my son requested “The Rabbit Song” for the 19th time in less than one hour. The song consists of the refrain, “Old Mother Rabbit,” followed by “what a green nose you have,” with the only possible variation being the colour of the rabbit’s nose. I had covered the primary colors and was delving into “designer” colors: chartreuse, fuchsia and sienna.

I had invented the song a year ago when my son would fuss and stiffen until the sound of singing lured him to sleep. At the time I had silently congratulated myself on having found an almost effortless solution, but “Old Mother Rabbit” was, in fact, beginning to get old.

Hugo called out, “Mommy, come here!”

I entered his bedroom to find him leaning over the bars of his crib, his arms crossed and his head cocked jauntily to one side. I kneeled down in front of him and said, in a not very convincing tone, “Sweetie, you’re supposed to be sleeping.”

He smiled and lifted one tiny finger to the tip of my nose. “That’s Mommy’s nose,” he said. For toddlers this is the stuff of headlines.

“Mmhm,” I mumbled, feigning little interest.

He continued. “It is pointy,” he said. “Like a pointed hat.”

“Yes,” I replied, feeling a sudden and unexpected surge of grade-school insecurity.

But he went on. “It is beauuuu-ti-ful,” he said, drawing out the last word to stress all three syllables, in a little voice so filled with blind adoration that for a moment I didn’t mind that I would soon have to start consulting professional paint charts to keep up with the colorful variations of “Old Mother Rabbit’s” snoot.

My son had pulled his own rabbit out of a hat, and for one sleep-deprived moment, having a pointy flesh colored nose felt like winning the lottery.