I went to Charleston for Memorial Day weekend. I ate seafood by the water, drank cold beer, and succeeded at being the laziest person in America, moving only when I needed to get to a pool or the beach.
The first pool I went to was the one in Danielle's neighborhood. She took the kids there after they got out of school on Friday. A few minutes after I arrived to meet them, Danielle's four-year old son Greyson emerged from the pool with one of his friends, wearing a rash guard and a circular raft around his waist. As the two made their way towards us, I heard Greyson yell to his friend, “That’s not my Grandma! That’s my Aunt Steph!”
Admittedly I was not looking my very best (I was at the pool!), but I refuse to believe that I look old enough to be someone's grandma. Right? I don't, do I?
Half an hour later, after I'd recovered from the grandma nonsense, I was standing next to Karson in the pool. She rubbed her hand on my leg under the water and then rubbed her mother's leg. She looked at me, as earnest as ever, and said, “How come your leg is so smooth and my mom’s is all rough?”
Without skipping a beat, I said, "Well, your mother is married. And pregnant. Her priorities are different."
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