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During my toddler/preschool/early elementary years, I had living great grandparents. I have few memories of them, but the memories I do have are precious.  My great grandmother always had to give me money when I visited.  For some reason, she was compelled to stick her hand in the cookie jar (yeah, that's where she kept her spending money) and get "a little sumpin'" for me.  On one of our last visits together, she had nothing in the cookie jar to give, and my little child heart broke for her as I saw how disappointed she was in having nothing to offer.  My great grandfather was a goof, at least in my eyes.  He consistently attempted to have a conversation in French with me (note: I did have to take French when I was little, but I was not near fluent;  I only knew a few words and phrases).  And know what else  my classy great grandfather expected of me?  He expected me to know how to write with my toes.  Yep.  We practiced and practiced.  I am forever indebted to him for that.

The kiddo is also blessed to know some of her great grandparents.  This last weekend, we headed up north to visit her great grandfather, fondly known as Papa.  The kiddo loves when Papa makes paper airplanes.  But my favorite moment this weekend was when she slowed down and snuggled with her Papa.  I know that snuggle spot well, and I'm so glad she gets to enjoy it, too.