"Look who I've brought!"

Gran slowly looked up from the jelly and narrowed her eyes to focus. "Fat hands," she said.

"Fat what?" I asked.

"HANDS! She's got fat hands."

"Oh," I replied, looking at the baby's admittedly fat, almost entirely wristless hands.

"Yeah, I suppose they are," I said. This wasn't the mortified response Gran was looking for.

"And fat legs," she continued, undeterred. The baby giggled in defiance. I silently squeezed her voluminous thighs and noted how they felt like one of those desktop executive stress toys.

"I think I can hear them coming with the bed," mumbled Gran, exasperated by our indifference. "You'd better be off."

It's not like her to give up so easily. I'm worried.