(It is Christmas, and my mother is visiting. I walk into the kitchen to find my 7-year-old son at the fridge holding a tube of cookie decorating frosting, essentially pure sugar. He is about to squeeze the entire tube in his mouth.)

Me: “Whoa! What do you think you’re doing? Were you going to squeeze this whole tube in your mouth?”

Son: *matter of fact tone of voice* “Yeah.”

Me: *dumfounded* “Oh, and who said you could do that?”

Son: “Nonna!” *Italian for grandmother*

Me: *to his grandmother* “Hey, ma. Did you give [son's name] permission to eat this whole tube of cookie decorating sugar?”

Grandmother: *with an Italian accent* “Eh, sure why not.”

Me: *speechless* “Uh, excuse me. If I had tried to do this when I was his age, what would you have done?”

Grandmother: “Oh, I would give you uno scupollone al tuo culletto (paddle your little butt)!”

Me: *pointing to my son* “And now?”

Grandmother: *waving me off* “Ah! Now wadda I care! I’ma da grandma!”