Grover

Grover: (n) to destroy a parent’s will to live while simultaneously being charming, ingenious and outrageously cute.

Yesterday I was out the front mowing the lawn, leaving a nice little circle around the dead ringtail possum that has been there for about a week. You’re welcome.

Grover was playing in the car and coming close to me and the mower and then running off screaming.

I’m not sure when it was he returned to inside the house, found a bottle of nailpolish and proceeded to paint all his nails and much of his fingers and toes bold blue.

Or when he decided to apply, with alarming precision, my new mascara K had sent me in a little care package of Avon goodness.

Last night we were having roast chicken for dinner with creamed rice and stewed apricots for dessert. This stewing of apricots is so entrenched in my childhood memories that whenever I make them (which is not that often because holy crap people a bag of dried apricots costs almost TEN bucks.) I am immediately transplanted back to my childhood home.

So dinner was done and I pulled the the apricots I’d had soaking in water in a saucepan (with its lid on) over the hob while I gently reheated the creamed rice I had cooked earlier in the afternoon.

After a while I took the lid off the apricots to give them a stir.

There, infront of me, were $10 worth of dried apricots reconstituting in a bath of water, from what I could tell, drinking chocolate and a healthy dash of vegetable oil.

You see, Grover’s currently favourite ‘game’ is to put on an apron and be a cooker man. Awesome.

The apricots were salvaged by draining them and rinsing them under hot water. Eating them was not.the.same. knowing what they’d been through.

Last week Cooker Man used the entire contents of an $8 tub of honey to make a concoction featuring said honey, yoghurt and raw eggs. Tasty.

And let’s not forget the time he drew a border around his and Jasper’s entire bedroom. In red crayon.

Or how, most nights, he sneaks out of his room up to our room, turns on the tele and then lies up there watching something probably highly inappropriate for a three year old.

And if he doesn’t do that then he comes into our bed every.single.night. at either midnight or 3am. EXCEPT, two nights ago I told him he’d get two star stickers if he slept in his own bed all night. Little bastard did.

He is the Chief Insult Agent calling his brothers (and parents) names such as baby, big fat baby, slughead, bumhead, stupid dumhead and so on and so forth.

He is hilarious, a complete showman, sensitive and inquisitive, wilful, stubborn, rude, outrageous, endearing, frustrating, and everything in between.

It’s like Felix all over again but with three bigger brothers the ‘mischief’ is so.much.worse.

I’m just waiting for us to end up in the Manly Daily as the story of the toddler who took his mum’s car for a drive or burnt down the house or made a bomb from raw eggs, weetbix and chilli powder.

 

Onward!

 

 

 

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