Into every generation a mummy slayer is born: one toddler in all the world, a chosen one**. She alone will wield the really-quite-unusual-for-a-two-year-old-armed-only-with-a-plastic-broomstick strength, and tantrum throwing skill to fight the mummies, siblings, broccoli, coat that needs to go on because it is November and cold, films that are not Nanny McPhee, getting into the pushchair, getting dressed, not getting dressed, and the forces of nap time; to stop the spread of quiet time and the swell of common sense. She is the mummy slayer.
**Actually, there are quite a lot of them. Toddler slayers are Buffy season 7 slayers: chosen ones everywhere. Mostly quite irritating. There’s that one you quite like (yours in the case of toddlers, that one who went to school with Dawn in the case of Buffy), but you secretly kind of hope Spike will slap the others (Buffy only, of course: no one wants a vampire with a terrifying British accent to slap toddlers, we’re not sadists).