Getting out the big guns.

Our middle Grandlittle is pretty athletic.

She's on a swim team for the summer.

And she thinks her 'guns' are getting pretty big.

When she was here the other day she challenged me to an arm wrestling contest.

I told her she probably didn't want to challenge me because I was pretty strong.

She kind of gave me 'that look'.

You know the one?

"Ummm...yeah...Grandma is old and I can totally kick her behind in this!"

With those thoughts clearly written all over her sweet little face, she perservered.

I finally agreed, and we went to the dining room table.

We squared up our arms.

She pushed.  Hard.

And I just resisted her.

"Grandma!  I thought you said you were strong!   You're not even pushing me down!"

"Okay," I said, "Do you want me to slam your arm down or just lower it gently?  I don't want to hurt you."

She looked skeptical and then informed me to just push her arm down gently.   "I don't think you can Grandma, because I'm pretty strong."

Geez.

She's eight.

I lowered her arm to the table.

She looked quite surprised.

"That was just luck, Grandma!   Let's go again!"

I lowered her arm again.

And a third time.

Finally, she conceded, "Okay, Grandma, you are a lot stronger than you look!   How about a hand squeezing contest?"

I asked her if she was sure she wanted to try.

She agreed but quickly added, "Stop squeezing when I say STOP, okay?"

I agreed.

I squeezed a little bit.

Her eyes got big.

I squeezed a little bit more.

Her eyes got bigger.

"Okay!  Okay!   Stop Grandma!"

Geez.

I was barely even squeezing.

She asked if she could go watch TV and then ran off.

I sat at the table for a few minutes, grinning.

Yep.  I'm old.  And out of shape.

But I can still out arm wrestle an eight year old.

Go me.