Grover is five. FIVE!

Grover 5

I had a disagreement with Mum late last week. She was adamant Grover’s birthday was today. I was equally adamant it was tomorrow. I had to check his birth certificate. Yes, it does appear, he was born on the 2nd of July, not the third.

I do not find it hard to believe this happened five years ago, becoming a mother to four children broke me big time for quite some time. If you want to really see the cold hard reality of new motherhood just go read any number of the posts I wrote in July 2007, it’s not pretty. To be honest, it makes me sad. I remember Grover arriving and me basically not being able to enjoy him, relax, recover or draw breath until I had a breakdown in May 2008. And even then that was hardly the kind of drawing of breath I had needed or imagined. Reading those posts I see how stressed I was, how tenuous my sanity must have appeared (and was) and how it was directly reflected in him. Poor little mite.

But here he stands, tall, brash, hilarious, stubborn, independent and wild. We’ve got a whole lifetime ahead of us but for some reason I feel like I’m finally drawing that elusive breath.


Felix and Grover
Clearly related



Grover's 4th b'day
Clearly brothers



Grover is 3



Kim and Grover 4July09


Grovey is 1


Just out
Just out.
Band of Brothers
Band of Brothers
37 and a half weeks 9June07
He was in there for another month after this photo

My little bit

So my last post let you know how I’m almost at my saturation point for hand-wringing and mulling-over that state of the world and the ability of humans to be absolutely grossly vile to each other.

The only thing bringing me back from worry and sadness is just how stabby the ABC TV promo for its Leaky Boat documentary makes me. It’s the one which shows footage of John Howard giving permission for every bigoted racist in Australia to think their attitude was acceptable, even right, in a shrinking, violent and often ugly world: ‘we will decide who comes to this country and the circumstances in which they come.’


But I’ve decided to spread some cheer today.

Look, a (very) blue Lego brick cake!


I know there are many of you who remember when he was born and my whole adjustment to being a mum to four but now, well now he is four. FOUR!

Why yes, that would be a Justin Bieber shirt he has on. We saw them at Target last week and I got Chef’s mum to get one for him – it was worn for three days before I was allowed to peel it off his body to wash it.

Family of freaks.

You think I’m kidding?

Ridiculous. Clowns. All of them.

This is the child who without fail comes into our bed every night at either midnight or 3:08am.

The one who ruthlessly calls his brothers names. Usually baby. The irony is lost on him.

He who is going to be Justin Bieber when he grows up.

The one who will not do as he is told. Ever. And gets most indignant when reprimanded for such ill-behaviour.

The turdinator still quite partial to a public urination.

The ‘cooker man’  who regularly makes bizarre concoctions of eggs, yoghurt, maybe some chilli powder, some herbs and anything else I haven’t put away then stores them in the fridge. Or pantry. And WOEBETIDE if you so much as look like you’re going to turf them.

The boy who angers just as quickly as I do.

Who has the most hilarious sense of humour.

Who is bolshy and brash and yet paralysingly scared of spiders and amusement park rides. Or climbing the wobbly ladder at gymnastics.

The one who prefers bread to toast. Is not partial to vegemite but can manage chilli heat hotter than most adults will bear.

Who makes me pull my hair out at his delinquency and rudeness and refusal to follow rules or do as his told and then makes me chortle with laughter at his latest story or notion with what makes the world turn.


How the hell is he four already?





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.







In what can only be described as a pre-teen act of bastardry Felix taught Jasper and Grover the chorus from Justin Beiber’s Babydoll. This came about as the worst, the WORST name you can call anyone under the age of, oh, 13, in this house is baby. It is guaranteed to get wails of protest, gnashing of teeth, tears of humiliation and anger all at a volume to summon the hounds from hell.
In what can only be described as a perfect example of karma, Jasper and Grover have morphed the chorus into ‘you’re just a baby, baby, baby DOLL’ complete with finger pointing and general derisive tone. All directed at Felix.
Of course, there are highly inappropriate moments the song is put to use. Like at Woollies on Wednesday when I dragged my sorry drugged arse out of the house with Grover in tow and he decided a rather elderly lady he saw walking through the carpark needed serenading. And proceeded to do so every.single.time.he.saw.her. Awkward.
In other news, I made The Pioneer Woman’s cinnamon scrolls. Yes, I do seem intent on fast tracking my metamorphosis into the size of Gilbert Grape’s mother but what can I say, they are FUCKING sensational.


Smell like a monster…

I think you will all appreciate this has even greater humour in our house.