What Happens at G’Ma’s, Stays at G’Ma’s

I remember when Quincey was 17 and we went out of town for the first time.

“No friends over,” I told her.

Steve was quick to add. “Especially not boys.”

Boys, bad.

“And no loud music,” I said.

“Don’t even think about having a party, Missy,” Steve folded his arms.

Quincey groaned and rolled her eyes. “It’s like you don’t even trust me.”

Fortunately, Quincey followed the rules.

Or she didn’t get caught.

That was 10 years ago.

Now here we are again.

Mom and Dad were leaving for the weekend and I don’t care how old you are…

Rules are rules, Missy!

Except this time, the roles were reversed.

Quincey and her husband, Colby, were heading off to Atlanta, and her lovable, yet often misguided parents (Us) were entrusted with watching 13-month-old Holland.

We sat at the kitchen table as the two of them laid down the law.

(Sidenote: It’s a lot more fun to give the rules than receive the rules.)

(Sidesidenote: Is that where the phrase, It’s better to give than receive, comes from?)

“No TV,” Quincey said.

“No exersaucer,” Colby added.

“No soaps or shampoos,” Quincey said.

“Is water okay?” I asked.

Quincey nodded. “But not too hot.”

“Or too cold,” Colby added.

Aye Aye, Goldilocks.

“And play Comforting Womb Sounds for nap time,” Quincey said.

“But make sure it’s not too loud,” Colby added.

Steve rolled his eyes.

I may have groaned.

Parents, am I right?

The litany of rules continued.

At one point I dozed off.

When I came to, Quincey and Colby were wrapping up the Baby Bylaws with the most important rule of all…

NO SUGAR!

NOT EVEN A LITTLE!

In fact, could you please hide all items containing sugar?

We do not want Holland’s pure pupils gazing upon one granule of such toxicity.

And if you think I’m exaggerating… I’m not.

When it was Holland’s first birthday, all the guests enjoyed a traditional birthday cake.

Holland, however, was presented with her own single serving cake, consisting of almond flour, unsweetened cocoa powder, unsweetened applesauce, grated carrot and non-fat greek yogurt.

Also known as a mound of sadness.

But at G’Ma and Papa’s house, we are the opposite of a mound of sadness.

We are a mound of fun.

And if we broke a few rules along the way, it’s not like Holland could say anything.

God bless her limited vocabulary.

Quincey and Colby left early Saturday morning.

Saturday evening Quincey Facetimed us and I gave her a rundown of the day’s events.

“And she ate all her peas…”

Smile.

“And after the park, she took a long nap…”

Smile.

“Oh, and we bought her new shoes…”

Frowny face.

“It’s just that you sent her with those flimsy slipper things,” I explained. “We thought she might need something sturdier.”

“Please tell me you didn’t buy her hard-sole shoes,” Quincey said.

Sheesh, it’s not like the shoes were made out of cement.

Or sugar.

Quincey then proceeded to educate me on the dangers of hard-sole shoes. Phrases like “limited mobility” and “decreased dexterity” were thrown out. 

“She’s not wearing them now, is she?” Quincey asked, her face filled with horror.

Holland tottered past in her non-approved cinder blocks.

No, ma’am.

After that, we did our best to follow the rules.

Correction: We did our best not to get caught.

And it probably would have been smooth sailing if it weren’t for FaceTime.

Holland’s favorite thing to do was FaceTime her mom, which she did several times.

Unfortunately, she did this when the TV happened to be on.

“Sweetie, give G’Ma the phone,” I whispered.

“And Papa the remote,” Steve coaxed.

For a kid who isn’t allowed to watch television, she sure knew her way around a remote.

“Dog-gee, Dog-gee, Dog-gee,” Holland blathered into the phone while simultaneously punching the volume button.

Just a second Quince,” I called, over the blaring TV.

“Why is it so loud?” Quincey yelled.

Thankfully, one of Holland’s other skills is hitting the red X on the phone.

Bye, Bye.

By the time Quincey called back, we had retrieved the remote, turned off the TV, and the three of us were cuddled on the couch, reading, “Jesus Loves Me.”

TV off.

✔

Soft -sole shoes.

✔

Biblical book.

Bonus Point.

Quincey and Colby returned the next night.

“I told you, you guys had nothing to worry about,” I said, as I handed her Holland’s diaper bag.

“I wasn’t worried,” Quincey said, giving Holland a kiss on the cheek.

Then, noticing the dark brown rim around Holland’s mouth, Quincey asked, “What’s this?”

And that’s when the two of them spotted the cup of fudge brownie gelato on the counter.

“YOU GAVE HER GELATO*?!” Colby clutched his heart.

Quincey had a minor stroke.

“It’s black beans, I swear,” I reassured them.

There was a quick 45-minute interrogation.

Fortunately, I was able to produce the empty can of beans.

They also did a thorough examination of Holland, and after concluding that she did not appear to be under the influence of sugar, they breathed a sigh of relief.

Steve and I just shook our heads.

It’s like they didn’t even trust us.

*At $5.95 a cup, we most certainly did NOT give her gelato.