Sometimes it just doesn't matter how strong a person is. Grandchildren know. They just know. They have multitudinous ways of knowing: DNA, parents, blood, love, heredity, consent, approbation, emotion and so on.
You begin with an adamant, "no."
You continue with this no for quite some time, eventually adding thought-filled, carefully crafted reasonable answers to "Why?" the "no."
And you stick to the "no," albeit a weaker version.
You then move to the maybes and I-don't-knows and we'll-sees.
And at some point, the torturous pleading and begging and boohooing becomes unbearable. You've lied, you've cried, you've blacked out, only to awaken soaked and bloody.
You relinquish in despair, ashamed of your weakness and exposure. The pleading and crying end, and you wonder why. You'd known all along. You've been through the pain and torture on numerous times before.
Challenged by a grandchild, you've never beaten the gauntlet. No one has.
In this particular case, the granddaughter and a new sock monkey, named Leroy, are happy friends. Yes, she is 16, and apparently, she still plays with stuffed toys.
And a grandmother has lost (and won) yet another battle. Merry Christmas to grandmothers and grandchildren everywhere.