My parents are good grandparents. Truth be said, they are FANTASTIC grandparents. They are so great in fact, that sometimes I look at these people and wonder where they were when I was growing up.
My parents are partly revered by my children because of their excellence in gift giving. It is this same skill in gift giving that makes me fear and tremble as birthdays and holidays approach.
For example, when my son was three years old he received a harmonica for his birthday. An extremely loud and piercing harmonica that he could play at 6:35 a.m. A harmonica he once smuggled into Walmart that almost got Mommy banned from TheLowestPrices.Always land. A very beloved harmonica that was not easily lost. Even by a fairly intelligent adult (on purpose). When it was finally, thankfully, lost my parents replaced it. And, for good measure, they threw in a kazoo for my oldest daughter. Ostensibly so she wouldn’t feel left out, but we all know it was a punishment because Mommy ‘lost’ the first harmonica.
As the years have progressed my mother and father have managed to give my children every annoying electronic device in the Northern Hemisphere: the Home Depot lawn mower AND chainsaw AND weed whacker, the Little People family minivan AND school bus, and the granddaddy of them all: Tickle Me Elmo. What makes these atrocities even more cruel and heartless, is that when my parents visit they bring replacement batteries.
This past weekend we enjoyed a wonderful Easter celebration at my parents house. My mother, in her typical good grandparent way orchestrated a brilliant Easter egg hunt. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the children found enough loot and prizes to fill their baskets.
That evening my 9 year old son with precious little impulse control brought home a slingshot.
Good grandparents can kill you.