I love my cousin’s kids. I can feed them cake for breakfast, buy them a toy train with an ear-piercing whistle, and let them play in the mud.
When I’ve had enough, I get to send them home.
It’s their parents’ problem to deal with their soot-cloaked clothes and sugar-induced hysteria.
I certainly don’t want a toy train with a piercing whistle in my house.
When the time comes, I’m going to be a fabulous grandma.