"My gross little friend."

She brings me a little plastic shoebox lined with a tissue. I look in, interested. "Whatcha got there?" I ask. It looks like a dead slug.

"It's my gwoss wittle fwiend," she explains.

"Well, that certainly is descriptive," I answer. "But what is it?"

"I told you alweady! It's my gwoss wittle fwiend!"

And then I look closer. And what is this little creature that my Four has so lovingly mothered?

A wrinkly old mushroom from last night's dinner, covered in dirt and hair. She must've found it under the kitchen table or something.

"Oh God," I say. "It's covered in dirt. You might want to find a different friend."

"That's not dirt!" she insists. "It's eggs! And I'll throw him away when he hatches all his eggs."


I seriously think four is the weirdest age of all.