III

 What madness is this? Tove our beloved little chide has just turned three. Her third year has been an oddity and while she's down with the lingo (she loves applying hand sani), she has been a glorious distraction from the torrents of Covid-related dross. While she still reserves the right go into her own mental safe mode when provoked (i.e. when some else dares to use the same piece of playground equipment at the same time she wants to use or has the general impudence to try and play with her without a formal introduction and swapping of credentials like this morning when a small spanish chide tried to play with her and Tove immediately demanded to go home and then fell into a deep silence) her initial diffidence has melted away into Milan Kunderan / Kunderaic / Kenderan-esque stream of consciousness that spans time and space and coherence and subject. On occasion we just have to tell her to shut up - which feels like a deeply unlikely experience.

A year ago such an intervention seemed an impossibility. But no more. They are a regular part of the parental experience. Our silent bean has been replaced by a loquacious cockney ("oi, gells, what ya playin?") with an slight tendency to move toward totalitarianism when pressured by her siblings. And as she sits at the bottom of hierarchy, she has also mustered some war time language ahead of time. She can deploy bugger like a hero and has also enmeshed it in songs (see-saw, buggery-door) to good effect. 

In fact, unlike her eldest sister who has the singing ability of lamp post (sorry if ever you read this Nancy), Tove has inherited her mother's talent for memorising songs after surprisingly short number of listens (today she was singing "I was born for loving you") and can carry a tune that is recognisable tuneful. 

Here are some lovely photographs of Tove turning three. And the frankly staggering pinata made by her father which was destroyed much too quickly for his liking. Buggering children. 

She remains edible.