North of the Tension LIne

The Circus

/ J. F. Riordan / 17 Comments

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.

Midwinter night

/ J. F. Riordan / 14 Comments

The French invasion has commenced. Last night we celebrated winter solstice with candlelight, vin chaud, and a warming stew made with beef, brandy, and root vegetables.

A long night seemed particularly appropriate since 2/5ths of us were jet lagged, and the rest were sleep-deprived after a 2:30 am bedtime. The kids, almost too tired to eat, took baths and went to bed after dinner, while the adults sampled champagne options for Christmas and walked together in the cool night, engaged in overdue conversation.

When we came in, the boys were not asleep, but giggling together in the dark in their shared bedroom. They’ve been apart for a long time.

Winter lies before us, but we look ahead all the same to lengthening daylight.

Personally, I’m praying for snow.

Happy Solstice.

A request of my readers

/ J. F. Riordan / 7 Comments

I was asked recently to assist in a list of book club questions for my latest collection of essays, But Still They Sing. Normally, I can rattle these things off easily, but I’m a bit too close to this one, and possibly a bit too distracted. Yesterday I opened the flatware drawer and found I had put a pot lid in it.

I’m wondering whether any of you have suggestions. Please reply in the comments, or, if you find that tricky, send them to me via email to northofthetensionline@gmail.com.

Many thanks!

And now for your gratuitous dog photo. Here’s my faithful Auggie, keeping me company on a sleepless night.

Le jour de gloire est arrivée

/ J. F. Riordan / 23 Comments

Well, tomorrow.

What we affectionately refer to as the French invasion begins tomorrow, when our daughter and younger grandson arrive for Christmas. Today there will be a certain amount of bustle as beds are changed, the house is cleaned, flowers are refreshed and we stock up on coffee for our daughter, and bake Christmas cookies for boys.

Also the dog hair must be vacuumed from the back seat of the big car. And Eli, who is responding to the warm winter in true long-hair fashion (he is half long-hair), is blowing his coat. He will need to be taken out to the orchard and brushed. Brushing him near the house makes visitors suspect we’ve had some kind of massacre of enormous bunnies.

I still cannot find the fragile glass icicle ornaments I pack away so carefully each year. Most annoying. They add such a magical shimmer to the tree. And, of course, our appliance debacle continued yesterday, on our first cold day in weeks, when our five year old furnace motor found a dark spot. Whatever that means. I am hoping the new part arrives today.

Meanwhile, only three days of school left for our long-term visiting grandson. Last night he meticulously wrote thank-you notes to all his teachers, and together we put bows and gift tags on his Christmas gifts. He will return home with his family before the new year.

All the bustle is fun and carries the requisite note of Christmas cheer. But there is cooking to be done, and wrapping, and still a few elements of shopping. Ah, and all the bed linens to be washed.

Speaking of cheer, there is one other note of preparation for the coming festivities: A case of champagne and the big bottle of whiskey.

By the end of the night, grandma may require a wee dram.

In any case, she will have earned it.

Update:

My husband, upon reading the above: “You have started calling yourself ‘Grandma’ and referring to yourself in the third person?…Also, where’s this whiskey?”

A doll’s…house

/ J. F. Riordan / 20 Comments

I have an heirloom dollhouse that I have been saving for my two great nieces. I sent it with my niece and her husband when they stopped to visit us on their cross-country move from Seattle to Philadelphia. At the time, one of her daughters was about three, and she was newly pregnant with the second, so we agreed that they would save the dollhouse for a time when the girls were old enough to appreciate it.

This is the year.

It’s a big dollhouse, made of wood, with wallpapered rooms and big muntined windows. I think it dates to the early 1950s. I was not the first little girl to play with it. It had belonged to my father’s cousin, and then to her daughter.

I thought it would be nice to include a set of the right sized dolls. I had no idea how difficult this would turn out to be.

I tried the hand-made website; and the auction website; I visited the very few actual toy stores. Nothing quite right. They had dolls, but they were either hideously plastic or one step up from corn husks. Nothing that simply had a nice face and reasonably-shaped body.

So, reluctantly, I turned to the Seattle guys. They do have dollhouse dolls. But you know how the algorithms are. Even if you reject something it keeps showing up in your feed. There is no Boolean method of saying “But not that”. And there is a series of dolls that, at first glance, seemed nice. The dolls come in different ethnicities and ages. But the longer you look at them, the weirder they become.

Do you see what I mean?

I showed them to my friend at lunch to see if she noticed. Maybe it was just me. But, no. She started laughing. “What is with their crotches?”

Exactly. And once you see it, you cannot unsee it. And it doesn’t really make any sense, either. I mean…never mind.

My friend texted me later with a suggestion of some animal family dolls she came across. One great niece will get a kangaroo family, and one will get a giraffe family. They will have to co-inhabit.

Close enough.