The old lady’s question seemed innocent enough: “Can I take a peek at your cute baby?”

Under any other circumstances, I gladly would have welcomed the bitty into our lives and invited her to come and admire L. I might have even engaged her in small-talk about the weather.

Today, however, considering I was changing L’s diaper in a parking lot and the baby was half-naked on a pad in the trunk of my Prius, I quite positively was not in the mood.

“Probably not a good time, ma’am,” I responded snippily, a conscious effort to make her hate me and flee. “I appreciate your interest but I’m smack in the middle of changing her and she’s not really wearing any clothes.”

This grandma (like most grandmothers, I suppose) was unrelenting.

“I won’t get in the way,” she said, hopping up behind me and peeking at L over my left shoulder. “Oh, she’s dar-ling!”

I know the old hag was just being sweet. And I know she was complimenting Powergirl and I on our genetic prowess. But at that moment, with a wipe full of poop and my daughter’s girl parts exposed to the world, I was not in the mood to be nice.

“Thanks very much, ma’am,” I snorted. “Now, please step away from the vehicle.”

“Excuse me?” she gasped, refusing to believe she had just been reprimanded by a man one-third her age.

“You heard me,” I said. “I’m changing my daughter. Please go away.”

This time, she didn’t pretend to be deaf. Instead, the bag of bones made clear she was flabbergasted I’d be so rude. She huffed. She puffed. And she gave me one of those I’m-a-grandmother-don’t-you-dare-talk-to-me-that-way sighs as she slinked away.

I, the proud papa protecting his brood, smiled widely as I bagged a dirty diaper and heard her go. I don’t care how old or sweet or frail this lady might have been. Especially when my baby is in a state of undress, nobody comes near her unless I say it’s OK first.