Grandma. Say it ain't so....

It appears that everything they say about becoming a grandmother is true.  You are stupid with love, reduced to a babbling, goofy nut around her.

Brag book?  Hell yes, you become fearless in comparing your grandbaby favorably to every other baby in the world, and giddy with anticipation about the next grandchild visit (since she's the cutest, sweetest, funniest baby in the world).  The Christmas tree was piled up with baby presents: toys, clothes, age-appropriate board books and anything else that she could possibly need for the next three years.  Conspicuously absent were gifts for the rest of the family.  Must remember them next year. 

You have an impossibly sunny, pretty nursery that seems to stay that way, as baby's Mommy and Daddy forgot to cut the umbilical cord, and keep her on a blasted "schedule" at their house.

To their credit, she's a blissfully happy and contented baby, who has learned how to smile and laugh at Grandma's non-stop shenanigans and makes the world go away when she reaches those fat little arms for me. I see my mother and my daughter in Tigerlily, and every now and then, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror of her eyes.