Mother F.

The best part of our trip to the East Coast so far — besides my mom calling out my dad for claiming he watches the busty weather girls on the Spanish Channel because he “really thinks it helps him learn Spanish” — has been introducing Skylar to my family’s oldest generation.  Watching Grandma Failor, a sprightly 88 years old, hold my daughter for the first time was all kinds of awesome.  Talk about a new appreciation for the circle of life.

If Grandma looks surprised, well, it’s because she is:  I’m pretty sure she thought I would NEVER produce a child.  Probably because she once said to me, “You’re NEVER going to have a baby, are you?  [PAUSE]  Oh well.  At least you have your cats.”

SURPRISE!

I may look like my dad’s side of the family, but I definitely inherited my firecracker gene from my mom’s side.  As has Miss Skye, I suspect.  I hope.  Even at almost 90 years old, Grandma Failor takes care of her own home and walks with a bouncy strut that puts runway models to shame.  We call her Mother F. — much to her chagrin — because she used to sign all of her cards to her children, “Love, Mother F.”  One day her son-in-law asked, “You DO know what ‘Mother F.’ is slang for, don’t you?”

“Why, no, I don’t,” Grandma said, confused.

When my uncle filled her in, she was horrified — which made everyone else only erupt into laughter.

“Oh, you’re all bad!” she cried.  The laughter swelled.

I’m so grateful Miss Skye got to hang out with Mother F.