E sits on the couch, blowing spit bubbles. Not the messy, drooly kind of a novice, but tiny, practiced, delicate ones, which she sucks neatly back in before they splatter.
Still, it icks me out.
“Quit that,” I say, watching her catch one in the nick of time. “It’s nasty.”
Somehow, she miraculously keeps one balanced on the tip of her tongue, then pops it to say, “The Grandparents say they’re beautiful.”
I hide a smile. Two sets of grandparents within five miles, and nary a one would tell her anything she does is not fantastic.
“Grandparents are different,” I say.
Yet another bubble perches on her lips.
“I know,” she says. “They say yes, and you say NO.”
And that is how it should be, punkin.
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