Coming home from another baby shower, I threw my purse across the room, clenched my fingers into a fist, and screamed, “If I hear one more time how wonderful being a grandparent is, I think I’ll kill myself! No, better yet, I’ll kill that nauseating grandmother. It can’t be that good!”
Pouring myself a glass of wine to calm my annoyance from all the ooey-gooey gurgling about how cute, funny, precious and sweet they are, as if grandchildren were the be-all and end-all (and without them you’re nothing), I plopped down on the couch, prepared to have a surly pity party. But as I took the first sip, I instantly fell into tears.