This post is one of a series called Trivial Tragedies. Each installment is a small story of minor heartbreak that has stuck with me from my childhood.

As a toddler, I had access to loads of great books. We had Golden Books, Dr. Seuss, Berenstein [sic] Bears. While I enjoyed most of these, there was one that I remembered dreading.

Hands Hands Fingers Thumb by Al Perkins was a simple rhyming book about monkeys and their drums. Eric Gurney’s illustrations of those monkeys, though, terrified me. The growing refrain and rhythm of the book would build the terror:

“One thumb, one thumb, drumming on a drum…”
“One by one more monkeys come…”

Until eventually, there were:

Millions of monkeys
Millions of drums
MILLIONS OF MONKEYS, DRUM DRUMMING ON DRUMS.

It was just too many monkeys.

As an adult, I was looking through the “baby book” that my parents had lovingly kept for me. It contained the snip of hair from my first haircut, among other mementos and milestones.

I came across the “Steven’s favourite book:” page in the baby book. The horrifying answer: Hands Hands Fingers Thumb.