Last week I took my grandchildren out to dinner. Before the food arrived, my six-year-old grandson asked, “Grandpa, can I say grace?” I told him of course.
He folded his hands and prayed:
“God is good, God is great. Thank you for the food… and I’d thank you even more if Grandpa gets us ice cream for dessert. And liberty and justice for all. Amen.”
Nearby tables chuckled at his innocence, but one woman muttered loudly, “That’s what’s wrong with kids today. Asking God for ice cream!”
My grandson’s face fell. With tears in his eyes he asked me, “Did I do it wrong? Is God mad at me?”
Before I could answer, an elderly man from another table walked over. He smiled and told my grandson, “I’m sure God loved that prayer.” Then he whispered with a wink, “Too bad that lady never asks God for ice cream. A little ice cream is good for the soul.”
At the end of dinner, I bought the kids ice cream. My grandson looked at his sundae for a moment, then walked over to the woman who had criticized him and set it in front of her.
“Here, this is for you,” he said politely.
Then he added, “You can shove it up your ass, you grouchy old b*tch.”
The entire restaurant went silent.
That moment reminded me of another story about the difference between grandmothers and grandfathers.
A friend of mine used to take his seven-year-old granddaughter for a Sunday drive each week. One day he was sick, so Grandma took her instead.
When they returned, the girl ran upstairs to her grandfather.
“Did you enjoy your ride?” he asked.
“Oh yes, Papa!” she said. “And guess what? We didn’t see a single a–hole, stupid basta–, or dumb sh– anywhere!”
And just like that, the difference between grandmothers and grandfathers became very clear.