I’d forgotten how much energy small boys have.
 Our grandsons will be 8 and 9 this summer. We spent three days driving the camper to Sacramento to pick them up and another three days driving home. They’ll be with us all month.
 When parents are young and have children in the house all the time, chaos is normal, but for grandparents, who have had orderly, quiet lives for several years, reintroducing constant disruption into the house calls for adjustments.
 Tim and Trevor aren’t undisciplined monsters, but the energy and activity of two boys only a year apart in age is more than the sum of the energy of each. One boy is a boy. More than one boy is a mob.
 In the first days, the boys probed their grandparents, looking for weaknesses. We grandparents studied the boys to try to figure what approaches to each might be most productive in persuading them not to destroy things in their rambunctious exuberance.
 The basement is off limits. It’s not it’s a sacred sanctuary requiring protection from small people. It’s full of sharp tools, fragile models, and the railroad layout.
 Last time the boys were with us, they had firm instructions to not touch the railroad unless Grandpa was with them. Trains proved too great a temptation a year ago, and I didn’t think they’d progressed sufficiently in their development toward responsible adulthood to keep their mitts off them this time.
 This time, we keep the basement door locked.
 They wanted to run the trains, of course. I had writing to do in my basement den, right around the corner from the railroad, so I told them what they could touch and what they couldn’t and made sure they understood that, if there were any problems at all, they were to call me and not try to fix them by themselves. Then I let them have at it.
 Trevor got bored and went upstairs. Tim wanted to change the makeup of the train. I helped him hook up the string of freight cars he wanted to haul and left him to play.
 A few minutes later, I realized I wasn’t hearing the train. I looked around the corner. The train had derailed, and Tim was trying to put the tiny wheels back on the track, a task his eight-year-old hands and eight-year-old coordination weren’t up to.
 No, I didn’t get mad. I was a boy his age once, and not so long ago as my gray hair might indicate. But I did ask if he remembered the rules about asking me for help. He did. So I turned off the power and said we were through running trains for the day.
 I think that, for Tim, that was probably enough. Next time, I’m guessing he’ll ask for help.
 His little brother isn’t perfect, either. His thing is picking up dogs. At his house, he is told several times a day to put down the dog. 
 We have a small dog, too, but it’s not so small that Trevor can pick it up safely. I explained to him that I wasn’t going to tell him ten times a day to put down the dog. I said I was telling him the rule, and that instead of telling him to put the dog down, I’d belt him.
 Now, before you call Child Protective Services on me to rescue the poor, battered boy, let me tell you what’s happened with the dog.
 The first time he “forgot” and tried to pick up our squirming dog, I reached over and whacked him on the arm with the back of one finger. You could read the, “Oh, yeah, this is Grandpa I’m dealing with here,” in his face.
 That was on the first night camping on the trip home, and that was the last time he tried to pick up the dog for three days.
 Once home, he “forgot” again. I popped him again with the back of a finger. I don’t think he’s tried to pick up the dog since, but I haven’t been home every day. He may be as smart as the dog and figured out that what he can get away with depends on who is around.
 Now that they understand the rules, we are all more relaxed and comfortable with each other.
 But we still keep the basement locked.