My parents are in town, which means one thing for Owen: it's time for a' spoiling.
My mother came here with three, count them, three suitcases. She did save some space to pack toiletries and clothing, but the majority of the space was dedicated to clothing, toys, and other assorted goodies for the boys.
Owen has had enough visits from Grammy and Grandpa to expect this, and he sits next to my mother with an expectant gleam in his eye. He sees my Mom as a cross between Santa Claus and an all-you-can-eat-toy-buffet. And sure enough, Mom obliged on this trip, providing him with several books and a farm puzzle before she even had her coat off.
Meanwhile, I am the one putting Owen in time out, reminding him that Mommy, not Owen, is IN CHARGE. Owen believes that he, in fact, rules the roost, and I frequently must disabuse him of this notion.
I guess this is the natural cycle of things. Parents do the heavy lifting; grandparents just have fun. Which is the way things should be. They have paid their dues. Believe me, I know. I was there, too.