The Grandparents Arrive

My parents arrived yesterday for a week-long visit. They are both so over the moon about Lumpyhead, it’s almost embarrassing. My mother stopped being subtle about her desire for grandchildren about ten years ago, and did everything short of shake me by the shoulders and yell, “HAVE A BABY ALREADY, DAMMIT!”

Her grousing stopped when Bump and I got married. I think she assumed a baby was in the offing, so she settled in and awaited her prize. She and my dad spent all day yesterday fawning over Lumpyhead.

“Look how beautifully his hair is coming in.” You can finally see some hair now that Lumpyhead’s helmet is off, but what he’s got is pretty thin.

“He’s just the perfect size.” In my mother’s head, the fiftieth percentile is not “average.” It is the standard to which all children must certainly aspire. I’m sure if Lumpyhead was in the 20th percentile for height and weight, she would criticize all those parents who stuff their behemoth children with food against their will. If he was in 80th percentile, my mother would pity all those tiny babies who weren’t Lumpyhead’s size.

“Just look at the way he loves books. I’ve never seen a baby that interested in reading before.” That’s because you’re holding his delicious book just out of his reach, and he’s concentrating on how he can get his maw on it when it’s that far away.

“He’s such a good baby, just like I was,” my father offers. “He must get that from his grampa.”

So, there you have it. My child is flawless, and inherited all his qualities from his maternal grandfather, with whom he shares no genetic link.

I listen to them gloat over their long-awaited grandchild, and keep the snarky comments to myself. I'm happy that someone else sees this nearly bald, regular baby as the brilliant specimen I do. It’s nice to have them around, even though they’re completely nuts.