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.
Delectable.
Tasty, even.
Hot dogs.
Mmmmmmmmmm!
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.”
More eating.
Chewing.
Swallowing.
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.
