Stories About My Family & Friends
We had our granddaughter one afternoon (she’s three). We had taken her to the zoo and on the way home, as a special treat, we stopped at Gretal’s Candy House on Hwy 17 S. I wish I had a picture of the child’s face when we entered the store. She thought she hit pay dirt.
I handed her a shopping basket that would have easily been as tall as she had you stood it on the end next to her. She looped her arm through it and started browsing the store like a pro-shopper (she IS my daughter’s child, after all).
Grandpa whispered to me, “Are we sure we want to do that: give her free choice like this? It could be disastrous.”
“She’ll be alright,” I promised. “We can control the situation if she gets out of hand.”
In a world where children are taught greed and self-importance, I was very proud of my granddaughter. She loves chocolate (of course) but I don’t think she’s quite figured out yet that colorful candy is not chocolate. She picked three… only three things… and put them into her basket. They were colorful candy.
She walked up the to counter where the cashier was waiting and although, she couldn’t reach the counter properly, she reached up and slid her basket on top. Very politely she informed the cashier, “I have all that I need.”
The cashier chuckled and said, “Are you sure?”
My granddaughter replied politely, “Yes, I’m sure. Thank you.”
She’s polite and well mannered. Did I mention that she’s three years old?
I “stole” a pair of shoes from my daughter’s house one afternoon. I liked them because they were loafers and they fit rather nicely. That was several months ago. Apparently, my three year old granddaughter was not oblivious to what I did.
She was here visiting and like always, she plunders. During her plundering, she stumbled upon the shoes that were sitting on a shelf. She brought them to me wearing an angry scowl on her face and said, “You STILL have Mommy’s shoes?”
I said, “Yes, I do.”
She snapped at me and said, “But they are Mommy’s shoes, not yours!”
“I know, honey,” I said to her as I tried to hide the humor in my voice. “Let’s put them back on the shelf and when she comes to pick you up, we’ll give them back to her.”
“Okay,” she said simply as she returned the shoes to the shelf.
I noticed it wasn't just "you have Mommy's shoes," it was, "you still have Mommy's shoes."
I told my daughter about it later and said, “Holy crap! I thought the child was going to beat my ass and send me to my room with no dinner.”
I hail from a large family. Like with all large families, indeed, any large group, rumors sometimes get spread around. In my family, we often find humor in the rumors and will even embellish upon them. Thank God our nieces and nephews have grown up with our sick, and even morbid, senses of humor.
When one of my brothers passed away, the rumor mill spit out that his ex-wife had probably murdered him in order to get his social security checks.
I was horrified that one of his children would suffer the pain and sting of such a comment while mourning their father’s death so I reached out to them. The first person I sent a text to was Jackie.
Me: I know your mother is bat shit crazy, but I hope you know she would not and did not kill your father.
Jackie: Yes, we know that.
We talked for a few minutes and she reiterated that no matter the bad taste in jokes, she knew it was just that and she did not take any offense.
Her younger brother Jason seems pretty flippant about such matters so I was sure he blew it off, but the oldest; Jerimi was just a tad bit more serious than the other two. I reached out to him as well, with the same message about their mother being bat shit crazy but not a murderer.
Two hours later, I get a reply back: I think you have the wrong number, but please continue. This promises to be interesting.
Me: This isn’t Jerimi?
Her: No. I’m not even a he. You must not talk to Jerimi very much, though, because I’ve had this number for a couple of months.
I’m digesting this new information. I can’t believe that little turd did not let me know he change phone numbers.
Her: Who are you?
Me: I’m Aunt Michelle. Who are you?
Her: I guess that makes me your niece, Brittany.
Me: I don’t have a niece Brittany.
Her: You do now.
Me: Well, welcome to the family. We’re a group of sick people who make sick jokes and have an uncouth sense of humor.
Her: With sick rumors. I feel welcome already.
I go silent for a few minutes as I check around and yes, Jerimi did change his phone number several months earlier. He’s aware of the rumor and thinks it’s laughable… as long as he’s okay I was fine. Meanwhile…
Her: Aunt Michelle, are you still there?
Her: Are you going to finish the story? Who is Jerimi?
Me: He’s my nephew – his father died a few days ago and someone in the family was joking around that his ex-wife probably killed him.
Her: Was my fake-daddy rich?
Me: LOL No!
Her: Why would fake-mama kill him then?
Me: For his Social Security checks.
Her: I need to have a talk with fake-mama. That’s just plain stupid to kill someone for their social security check.
Me: She didn’t do it, though.
Her: How did fake-daddy die then?
Me: He likely had a heart attack (which it turned out later that is what happened).
This exchange went on for a couple of hours with the two of us going back and forth. It was hilarious and she was a good sport about me getting the wrong number. I promised to keep her informed if anything else happened.
In the end, we both agreed: There’s nothing like other family’s dramas to help you cope with your own.
While keeping my granddaughter one day, a commercial came on the TV about pies; I think it was Sara Lee or something. I call my granddaughter, Angel Pie.
I didn’t think anything of that, though, when I said to her, “I love it, pies!”
She stopped what she was doing and said, “Your favorite is Angel Pie.”
Later, the same day, after my husband came in, I stretched out on the couch and apparently, I nodded off. I awoke to something being forcefully jammed into my mouth and my Angel Pie’s tiny voice saying, “Here, Momo, you need your passy!”
It was a toy pacifier from one of her dolls that she was trying to stick into my mouth.
This child is a mess! I adore her, though. She certainly keeps me in chuckles.
I was keeping my granddaughter (she's 3) and I had received a package in the mail. She asked if she could open it and I told her yes.
"This is for me?" she asked as she stuck her little hand in the now open bag.
"If you want to be," I answered.
"What is it?"
She pulls it out and then opens the package it is in and puts it on... she decided it was too big for her