It’s nice not to be in charge. This is why being a non-custodial grandparent is so much fun. You don’t have to be responsible. You can be funny. And silly. And a little crazy. You can speak with affectionate irony, and not be worn down with worrying about whether they turned in their homework, washed the slime out of their water bottles, and picked up their damn backpacks off the hall floor.

So, it’s good to have the boys’ mom around to do the enforcement. I can get back to being the fun one.

And we did have fun yesterday, even at the grocery store. The boys were barely reined in racehorses pulling at the bit. Naturally, they were in charge of the shopping cart, which is potentially disastrous, but people were in a mood to smile indulgently when I apologized and rolled my eyes, calling out “Say excuse me!” to the boys and “I’m so sorry,” to innocent passersby. The boys were polite nevertheless, and, if I may say it, so adorable it was impossible to be annoyed.

The eleven year old is particularly endearing at this stage, with his straight dark hair falling across his big brown eyes, and his shy, accented English. He’s not careful, like his brother, and at the stage of boyhood perfection: childish, wide-eyed, charming, and full of mischief. Very much like a puppy. When they’re together, the fourteen year old reverts to that phase, too, and together we become like a small traveling circus, with me as Ringmaster.

There were so many carts and people. As I moved rapidly through produce, grabbing the last few things I wanted, I looked around for them, and there they were on the far side of the section, waiting for me, and happily waving their arms to draw my attention. Their happy faces filled me with joy, and I forgot to be tired.

Children really do make Christmas.

I’ve joked a lot about having a week-long nervous breakdown when they’ve gone. But I’m going to miss them.