Becoming a grandmother makes you lose your mind

My parents just got back from a two-day jaunt to northern Michigan. I am sure that along the way, instead of using the car ride as a wonderful excuse for Wendy's Junior Bacon Cheeseburgers, they munched on egg salad sandwiches in an insufficiently cold cooler. There was no greater disappointment as a child than packed lunches on road trips. There was never anything good like a can of pop or some potato chips, just Dutch cheese sandwiches and wholesome fruit you had to peel yourself. And somehow my mom always found this fare so compelling she dug into it literally before we had left the driveway.
My mother was always very vigilant about our well-being; my childhood was peppered with cabbage casserole, sunflower seeds and a great deal of brussel sprouts. I was forced to drink milk with every meal until I was financially independent, even when I came home for the weekend from my own apartment in college. After I moved back here as a married adult, my dental hygienist asked if she still needed to call my mother before I had X-rays. So imagine how my jaw dropped when my mother, who carefully parcels out daily vitamins for herself from at least 83 separate bottles, returned from her trip with not one, but two, bags of bright blue cotton candy for Frankie. It just seems like the next step is going to be to bring in a sack full of crack cocaine.