Because Polly Lodge liked to look on the bright side, the word she chose to describe her mother-in-law was challenging, as in "the ferret makes a challenging pet." So when Polly's only child, David, married, Polly vowed to be the best mother-in-law she could possibly be, and the least interfering.

Sometimes this was a struggle. But even though her son's wife, Amy, was a week overdue for the birth of Polly's first grandchild, Polly did not phone David and Amy every day. Of course they would call her when the baby was born! In the meantime, she didn't so much sleep at night as levitate a few inches off her bed in a trance of anticipation, every instinct straining to hear the ringing of the phone.

And then the phone rang.

It was the middle of the night. Polly lurched up and grabbed for the handset, knocking all her books off the bedside table in the process.

"Hello?"

David's voice was gorgeously smug. "Hello, Grandma."

Polly shrieked. "Amy had the baby!" She switched on her bedside lamp and sat up, leaning against the headboard. From the foot of her bed, her ancient basset hound, Roy Orbison, shot her a longsuffering look, then lay his head down between his paws and resumed snoring.

"She did indeed." David's laugh was proud.

David and Amy's insistence on having the baby born at home with a midwife had worried Polly, but she'd kept quiet and now the joy in her son's voice signaled that all was well. Polly fell back among her pillows, weak with relief. "Stop it, David! Don't torture me!" They'd also decided, when they had the first ultrasound, not to be told the sex of the baby, nor to discuss the names they were considering.

"Jehoshaphat Feast Piper has just arrived on planet earth, weighing nine pounds, three ounces, and bellowing like a bull."

The string of unfamiliar syllables made Polly blink. "Jeho-huh?"

"Jehoshaphat was a Biblical king, famed for his righteousness."

"Oh, David!" Tears streamed down Polly's face. "A little boy! Oh, darling, congratulations! How's Amy?"

"She's beautiful." Now David's voice was choked. "She was awesome, Mom."

"Oh, I'm sure she was! Please tell her how proud I am of her. Give her a hug for me. And lots of kisses for everyone! Is there anything I can do?"

"No, thanks. I think we're going to try to snatch a few hours of sleep. We're exhausted. Well, Amy is."

"I'm so happy for you all, David. I love you all so much!"

"Thanks, Mom. We'll phone in the morning."

Polly clicked off the phone and looked at the clock. Three seventeen. Her grandson had been born sometime around three seventeen on September 20. Her grandson. Little Jehoshaphat.

Little Jehoshaphat?

"Stop it!" Polly snapped at herself. She threw back her covers and flung herself from her bed with such energy she disturbed Roy Orbison, who, for an old dog with sagging skin, could conjure up an impressive array of expressions. Right now he resembled an exasperated hausfrau, hair in curlers, arms folded over her Wagnerian chest.

"Well, I'm sorry!" Polly told the dog. "But you're a dog, and I'm overwhelmed, and you're all I've got at the moment, so you can just bear up and sacrifice some sleep to keep me company!"

Roy Orbison sagged a bit, morphing into his Jean-D'Arc-at-thecross pose but stayed at attention.

"In the first place," Polly muttered, reaching for her silk robe and pulling it on over her nightgown, "isn't Jehoshaphat an awfully big name for a little boy? 'Stop, Jehoshaphat, don't put that raisin up your nose!!' " She slid her feet into her slippers. "And what if he goes through that prepubescent plump...

 

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The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again by Nancy Thayer
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