It seems that any time conversation revolves around what it's like to be a grandma, there's always a comment made by someone about the advantages of being able to hand the kiddo back to Mom when there's a less-than-perfect moment.

"One of the great things about being Grandma," some say, "is that I can hand him back when he starts crying!"<snicker, snort> Or when he gets sleepy. Or when he's poopy. Or when I just plain get tired of holding him.

I hear it often enough that I've thrown it in the category of comments such as those I get when walking my (big, powerful, hyper) dog: "Wow! Looks more like he's walking you!" passersby say. <chortle, chortle>

Those comments bug the hell out of me, to be quite honest. I have a pet peeve about hearing something again and again. Same goes for watching movies over and over or reading the same book several times or listening to most "classic" rock. I go for novelty. "Say something original!" I want to scream. "Maybe then I'll give you a sincere giggle in response!"

I mention this because I realized Sunday that I'm definitely not one of those grandmas who are ready and willing to "hand the baby back" as soon as things get uncomfortable.

Because we allowed more than enough time when arriving at the airport on Sunday -- ya never know how security will be at an international airport! -- Jim and I ended up with time on our hands as we waited for our flight back to the mountains. So we visited the Cold Stone Creamery counter. We grabbed our goodies -- sweet cream and raspberries for me, chocolate decadence (of course!) for Jim -- and settled into the relatively comfortable armchairs scattered along the airport aisles.

We didn't talk much. We just kicked back, savored our sweets, got in a good round of people watching and enjoyed the relaxed finale to our whirlwind weekend with Bubby. It was a nice moment.

As we finished then made our way through the security line, I got a text from Megan. She, Preston and Bubby were still driving the 40 or so miles back to their house after dropping us off at the airport. Her text: "We just had to pull over and clean poop off of Bubby. His feet were up and it shot right out of the side of his diaper. YUCK!"

Sheesh! "Yuck!" I replied back, keeping it short because I was dealing with getting my shoes off and into the bin.

For sure, that seemed disgusting, yucky work. My first thought was "Good thing they dropped us off before that happened!"

But ya know what? I didn't really feel that way.

Even though Jim and I were kicking back with a cold one at the time that Megan and Preston were likely swearing under their breath and trying to keep from freaking Bubby out more than he already was at the poop all over his hands, legs and car seat, I honestly would have rather been cleaning up that mess than sitting at the airport, peacefully eating ice cream. I wouldn't have claimed grandma-status that leaves the mess to Mom.

Yeah, I'm sure I'd be holding back a few "holy crap" comments or two, but I'd do it. I would have gladly gone through the ream of baby wipes to swipe the poop off the little boy if it meant I got just a little more time with Bubby.

Because that, to me, is better than ice cream -- even the sweet cream and raspberries from Cold Stone!