It started with a sweet text from their daughter:
“Can you watch the kids for a few hours? Just until dinner?”
Edna, ever the optimist, replied with a thumbs-up emoji and four heart stickers.
Frank squinted at the phone.
“Are you sure she meant today? Last time I agreed to babysit, I woke up with glitter in my belly button.”
“She said they’re easy now. They’re older,” Edna smiled.
Frank grunted. “So are we.”
By 10:12 a.m., the living room looked like a toy factory exploded during a disco. There were LEGOs in the fish tank, applesauce on the ceiling, and someone had used a marker to draw a six-pack on Frank’s bald belly while he dozed off.
“I told you,” Frank groaned, sliding off the armchair like a slow landslide, “They don’t come over. They invade.”
“I just stepped on a dinosaur and a Barbie shoe,” Edna whispered through gritted teeth. “I think I need a tetanus shot.”
The youngest grandkid streaked by, giggling, wearing only a lampshade and one sock.
Meanwhile, outside the window, their daughter pulled out of the driveway like she was escaping a hostage situation.
“She’s not coming back till sundown,” Edna sighed.
Frank picked up a juice box and drank it in one gulp.
“Then we’re not cleaning until sunrise.”
