Lucy Furr squeezed Pricey, who was snuggled into the cradle of her arm. Her grandson was delicious as he nuzzled her. It was definitely baby-grabbing time– time for a little mutual nuzzling, his soft neck so ticklish and tender, time to make kissy noises while Pricey giggled at the pleasant pressure of his grandmother’s breath. She admired his perfect baby skin with her index finger. She cooed. Ok—so she’d seen a salesgirl turn away in disgust as Lucy baby-talked into Pricey’s face. And a cashier had winced as Lucy sang a little off-key song to Pricey as she paid. Nothing like grandbaby-love to drive a grandma over-the-top. She knew she should be more reserved, but she didn’t want to be. She loved the baby and she would express that love without regard for the judgments of those who didn’t understand.
It was ironic, though. Before Pricey, Lucy had vowed, “I will never bore people with grandchild pictures. I will not subject friends to videos. I will not post YouTubes of Pricey’s first steps and link them to my Facebook. I will not go crazy on Instagram. I will not have people’s first question to me be ‘How’s Pricey?’ I will not describe his obvious intelligence nor dwell on his bodily functions. I will not be that sort of grandmother. People won’t even know I’m a grandma. That humiliating, degrading word—doting—will not apply.”
But how wrong Lucy had been. She had done every single one of those things. Her friends nicknamed her Gramcracker. Photos clogged her devices. She had pictures of Pricey on all of her wallpapers, her refrigerator, her desk, her bureau, her rearview mirror. Her phone gallery was overloaded. She was always running out of space. SIM cards became her item of choice on shopping lists. She had fallen for Pricey as only a grandmother can, and he loved her back.
