Obviously, he's forgotten about the time I met them in the E.R. to witness a sprained wrist being taped after it came in direct contact with a nose, which was also being bandaged.

I'm outside watering flowers while waiting for my family to arrive when I hear screeching tires followed by the smell of burning rubber. The SUV swerves around the corner like Dale Earnhardt, Jr. is behind the wheel.

Before he can bring the Blitzbuggy to a complete stop, doors are flung open and two combat-ready, heavily armed, half-pint dragoons launch the invasion. The two dogs, Peanut and Speckles, bring up the rear. My son remains behind the wheel in shell-shock mode. I take it the "Quiet Game" needs work.

Two of the boys yell my name in unison and I, thinking it might be my last opportunity, open my arms to embrace my grandsons. Next thing I know, I'm flat on my back in soggy St. Augustine sod. The kids are all over me and I experience a genuine, but fleeting, Granny Moment.

Peanut, the loopy Jack Russell, is so thankful to be out of the car that he pees on my leg while the dimwitted Speckles licks me in the face with a tongue the size of a Shetland pony.

My oldest grandson is proudly holding up a drawing of a naked woman that he enhanced himself by shading all the inappropriate places.

The middle child, who consistently breaks my heart with his snaggled-tooth smile and long, Llama lashes, hugs me so tight I am unable to get away from the Jack Russell still relieving himself on my leg.

The youngest boy, the one nicknamed "Crash" for good reason, hobbles out of the car on twelve-inch stilts I sent him on his birthday. Everything being relative, "Crash" gets up close to my prone and sodden body before living up to his name ... right on top of me.

While I gasp for breath and consider calling for a priest, my son sits behind the wheel of his car staring straight ahead with eyes the size of a Krispy Kreme Donut.

The two older boys look up to see their grandfather, Babe, approaching, and, literally leaving me to the dogs, they run to greet him.

Babe has the patience of a gnat. He's either barking at the kids, ordering them around, or threatening them with baptism by fire if they don't settle down. Yet, they idolize him as though he holds the answers to civilization's frequently asked questions.

"Yo! Babe," they hi-five each other like fraternity brothers. But not "Crash," who is still struggling to get up from the wet grass on those slippery stilts.

My dazed son finally appears. "Did you make martinis, Mom?"

I nod. "But don't start without me."

Honk, if you break for Happy Hour.