The Least One

I'm watching the least one tonite. That is a Southern expression for the youngest grandchild. He is three years old. He is not the least, actually, in anything except size. His mother is doing something at the church for a couple of hours and asked if I could entertain him. Sure.

He wandered through, recently, and gave Pawpaw a nasty wet kiss. Slobber and snot are the primary ingredients in a three-year-old kiss. Time to wipe his nose.

Milady and I keep a toybox in the washroom beside the dryer. He is in there now, making growly noises with plastic dinosaurs. Truly fearsome pasttime.

I wasn't aware he was coming or I would have laid in something special for him. Like maybe a bag of oreos. There's nothing quite like sending a kid home on a chocolate rush. Watching grandkids is payback on the parents, in a way. This is a spur of the moment visit and I am without chocolate in the house. There is peppermint, however, and I'm sure we can get some sugar in his bloodstream before too much longer.

I like watching them hover on the way out to the car. Payback.