It’s late Thanksgiving night and we’re all worn out as we pile into the car. BBH is driving and I’m up front too. Grandson is secure in his car seat in the the back. His daddy gets in on his right.
The last person to get in (of course) is mother-in-law, on the left of Grandson.
Doors shut, seatbelts buckled and we’re off.
Grandson: It’s ‘tinky in here.
Great Grandma: It’s your feet.
No, it’s not!
It’s your hands.
No, it’s not!
Silence for 1/4 of a mile.
It’s ‘tinky in here!
Son: Maybe it’s ‘someone’s’ breath. . .
GG: It’s not mine! (Insert indignant tone here)
I opened my purse, dug around for some tictacs and passed them to the backseat occupants.
Grandson, not understanding the purpose of a breath mint, promptly chews his and wants another.
More silence.
We’ve made it to the freeway now with everyone seemingly enjoying the music on the radio and the peaceful ride home.
It Stinks in here. And it’s not my Gramma. (Thank you, Baby)
It’s not my Poppy.
It’s not my Daddy.
And it’s not me!
. . . how old do you have to be before you can run for public office?
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