I glanced over as I slid the chocolate breakfast muffins into the oven. She had a wad of chocolate sprinkles stuck to her upper lip and chin.
“Ohhhhhh…. dear. What a mess.” I closed the oven door and quickly ripped a paper towel off the roll, handing it to her. “Why don’t you wipe your face down? But hold over the counter so it doesn’t end up on the floor…”
She made no move to comply.
“Guess who I am,” she giggled.
“Daddy?” I guessed.
She shook her head.
“A pirate?” I tried again.
Again, she shook her head no.
“Mommy,” she rolled her eyes, clearly frustrated with me. “I’m a grandmother!”
The frightening thing? She is right. Grandma has whiskers. My genetic destiny, right there. Each year, there are new ones to tweeze regularly. I am still only at the tip of the iceberg, though. A…
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