When Cousin J was a small bit of nothing much, she firmly believed that her Phulididi (yours truly) knew everything. She tried to gloss over my distressing passion for all things Barbie but you can imagine the shock to her tomboyish soul when she discovered one day that I didn't know what a stepney was.
Rahul just had a moment like that. My father, back from three weeks with his youngest nephew in Canada (all of three years old), lovingly brought a rubber frog for his grandson. Rahul was delighted with it and is completely amazed that I not only dislike it now (at the top of my voice if he brings it near me) but am not prepared to like it any time ever either. He tried telling me that babus like frogs too and when I firmly repudiated any such statement he brought me his little plastic froggie soapdish. I compromised and agreed that babus could perhaps like little plastic froggie soapdishes.
Of course, not half a minute later he figured that if babus don't like rubber frogs from Canada then it would probably be great fun throwing those rubber frogs from Canada at babus.
I am currently teaching him to throw it at his other grandmother (my mother-in-law; my mother has already warned the boy against bringing it anywhere near her. The MIL, having brought up Vicky and his brother, ought to be made of sterner stuff.)
Note: This post was written yesterday but had to wait because I cannot transfer photos to my ancient laptop. This photo was taken in a afternoon-dark kitchen, mind you. The N8 rocks. Ooh and I'm on Ovi after all now.
P.S. My FB status yesterday: Somebody stop that son of a Niyogy from throwing his rubber frog at me!