Three of our grandchildren were over at Gramma and Grampa's for a visit.
They had run down the stairs.
Watched Grampa at work on the basement ceiling.
Played on his ladder.
Examined/rearranged his tools.
“Hey, you kids get out of there!”
Run back up the stairs, giggling.
Played with the castle.
Fished Sister out of the castle.
Found something to interest Sister so she wouldn't play with the castle.
Fished Sister out of the castle again.
Gave up on the castle and beat Gramma at Blokus instead.
And generally really, really worked up an appetite.
It was time for dinner.
Gramma made their favourite.
Something truly delicious.
Places were set and bodies gathered.
Blessing said and eating begun.
For a few minutes, there was little in the way of conversation.
Mostly munching and satisfied sounds.
Then, our six-year-old finished a bite and looked at his Grampa.
“You know, Grampa, you have a big tummy,” he said.
Grampa smiled. “I know,” he said.
“Yep. A big tummy.”
Then, with characteristic six-year-old logic, “It's lots more polite to tell someone they have a big tummy than to say they're fat.”
Gramma shot water out of her nose.
Grampa stopped chewing and stared at his grandson. “Really?”
“Oh yes. Lots more polite.”
You heard it here first, folks.