Editor's note: This story first appeared Sunday as an exclusive for our print readers.
Black Friday came and went without my participation this year. I don't think I was missed.
All the same, I and legions of others who answer to "Grandma," "Nana," or the ever-present "Waaah, I'm telling," do serve a purpose on what has become capitalism's most revered day.
We swallow hard and sign up to watch our grandkids while their parents are at (1) work (2) the mall, or (3) sleeping it off after a wild night of bargain hunting.
Personally, I'll take a carsick child any day over fighting some woman at 2 in the morning over China's last shipment of Pole-Dance Barbie - or whatever this year's "must-have" toy happens to be.
And so for years the routine in my house has been a sleepover on Thanksgiving night, followed by lunch and a movie the next day, which usually translates to McDonald's and whatever the PG movie of the moment happens to be.
People are also reading…
This year was no different. No different as well was the company I kept during my rounds: mainly women who once blithely ironed their hair and then went off to dance the Hully Gully, now cajoling children too young to be their own to "Eat your apple slices and then you can go play on the slide."
It is, of course, much more than a slide, as any grandmother who's tried to extricate a child from this labyrinth of sticky tubes can attest. ("Jeremy, come out of there right now or I'm coming in to get you. Do you hear, me, Jeremy?")
Of course, Jeremy hears her, but he also knows, as does Granny, that she dare not stick much more than her eyeballs up any of the playground's assorted plastic orifices without risking a close encounter with some child in eject mode. Still, Grandma has one trump card left: "The movie's about to start."
Works every time, at least for me. As we left, other grandmothers, kids in tow, were still filing into the place, including one who'd obviously come to the end of her tether, hissing at her charges, "This is supposed to be a happy meal, not a whiny meal."
We soldiered on, fighting the traffic, finding a parking place at the mall where the movie was playing, then heading upstream - salmonlike against the last of the bargain hunters - toward the box office.
Once inside the theater, we aim for the snack bar - no matter that we've just consumed more than our daily allotment of carbos, gluten and grease. "We want popcorn," they've announced. Resistance is futile.
But I do rack up one small victory: instead of soda, three small cups of free water, which the guy behind the counter grudgingly serves up in exchange for one "Medium Gargantuan" container of popcorn.
Helpful tip to all you future Black Friday grandmas out there: Trot the kids over to the bathroom BEFORE you get the popcorn. Then all you have to do is balance several cups of liquid in one hand, the popcorn in the other as you make your way down the Las Vegas-inspired carpeting to theater entrance No. A-27. Or is it A-28?
After 17 previews of coming attractions, along with several stern warnings about cellphone usage, the movie you came to see will actually come on - just about the same time you promised to have the little tykes home. Trust me, their parents will not mind the delay.
Afterward, don't forget that all-important trip to the bathroom before heading home. And if your grandkids are so young you need to share a stall, be prepared for the inevitable, "Caitlin, don't open the door yet. Grandma's not done. Caitlin, no! Close the door! Caitlin, do you hear me?"
Buck up, Grandma. More holiday quality time with the grandkids is just around the corner.