I am the parent of a child whose nightly requests for more stories, more songs, a torch, a magnifying glass, and the “Well Done!” sticker on the jumper that went through the washing machine three days ago, have never yet been known to run dry; a child who inevitably brings up the subject of death as a last resort, knowing it’s a hard-faced mother indeed who leaves a four-year-old grappling alone with the spectre of mortality in a darkened room. In this capacity, I am definitely in the market for juvenile sleep aids, preferably, though not necessarily, laudanum-free. And, as a children’s literature geek, I’m also a stickler for half-decent bedtime stories, but The Rabbit Who Wants to Fall Asleep, which will allegedly send kids to sleep in minutes, is a somewhat perturbing addition to the genre.
The first self-published title ever to top the Amazon charts, it’s knocked heavyweights like Go Set A Watchman and The Girl on a Train effortlessly off the podium – perhaps unsurprisingly, since pretty much everyone with young children wants them just to Go the Fuck To Sleep. Devised by Carl-Johan Forssén Ehrlin, a Swedish psychologist, The Rabbit Who Wants to Fall Asleep deploys carefully researched techniques – frequent (intentional) yawning by the reader, emboldened phrases, which must be emphasised, and “insert name here” spaces so that the rebellious sleep-refusenik is made to identify solidly with Roger, the rabbit insomniac of the title. But what’s it actually like as a story?
In a word: sinister. From the outset. As disclaimers go, “Even if this book is harmless to use, the author and the publisher takes no responsibility for the outcome” is simultaneously so comprehensive and so vague as to strike an immediate note of unease – and the injunction never to read this book “close to someone driving any type of vehicle” only increases the reader’s sense of impending peril.
And the cover page is indubitably terrifying. “I can makE aNyoNe faLL asleep”, declares a small pink-shaded signpost, whose erratic capitalisation makes my pulse race, rather than slow – like a missive from Stephen King, pointing the way to eternal slumber via a terrifying cottage with a roof like a witch’s hat. Rather than the cuddlesome Nutbrown Hares, the racked, etiolated bunnies evoke the Black Rabbit of Inlé; and their sad, green eyes have an all-too-knowing glint (unless that’s myxomatosis). Much of the text strikes me as sinister too: “‘But now, you will fall asleep,’ said Mommy Rabbit with certainty in her voice.” Not if I climb out of the window and run for my life, I won’t.
When Mommy suggests that Roger and “you” should go and see Uncle Yawn, “the world’s kindest wizard, who lived just on the other side of the meadow”, and who ALWAYS makes children and rabbits fall asleep using his magic sleeping powder, I sit bolt upright, breathing hard in terror. Despite things looking up slightly when we encounter the “Heavy-Eyed Owl”, who delivers a guided meditation, encouraging the listener to relax and drift off, the wizard doesn’t reassure me in the slightest – and after that, the repetition becomes excruciating, rather than relaxing. “The eyelids are as heavy as stones, heavy, heavy, so heavy,” mourns Roger, as he trails down the homeward path. And they are. But with despair, rather than with sleep.
Many of the ideas behind The Rabbit who Wants to Fall Asleep are sound; I really like the concept of a story designed to reassure an anxious child that they are loved, good enough, and that their worries (including mortality) can be deferred until the morning. There’s also plenty to be said for accustoming children to relaxing their bodies and succumbing to sleep, rather than fighting it. But bedtime stories are not, to me, about deceiving your child into conking out (and still less so with a text full of unintentional horror-film resonances).
The words to which kids doze off sink into them with invisible permanence – and there’s a distinct note of Brave New World hypnopaedia about Mommy Rabbit’s inexorable drone. For now I, at least, will continue my bedtime pilgrimages up and down the stairs. After all, there’s always gin.
