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Begins now the rest of Grandboy the Second's Life. Now he is a man, according to the tradition that deems 13 year old boys fit to wear yamulkes and be counted in a minyan. My cherubic, chipmunk-cheeked grandbaby is about five feet tall, built like a fireplug, goofy and sarcastic and by no means an adult yet. Lucky him.

I'm told he did a class job at his Bar Mitzvah: remembering all he had to, speaking from his heart about what meaning he was drawing from the event and the presence of family. My son says lots of people showed up at the evening party but very few for the service. Nobody wants to get too close to the molten flow from the IS's meltdown. Which continues.

She now can see the boys only under paid, professional supervision, to be arranged and paid for by herself. No more coercion of reluctant parents and sister into the thankless role of supervisors. She must get herself into rehab. All this is in the court order, as agreed to by the parties a week ago. Agreed to, and you know why? Because she is still getting an astronomical amount of my son's income as support. His lawyer couldn't quite manage to get a support modification result in front of the judge in time for the last court appearance. So she's got lots of money, no responsibilities and whoopee! What'll happen next?

Nope, I didn't attend the festivities this weekend. I don't think I know how to be a grandmother, having only had one for the first three years of my life. My mother was clueless about the phenomenon, too. She was still working full time when my kids were born. By the time she had time to share with my kids, they were busy in their own lives: glad to see her every year or so but she wasn't a part of their world. As I am not a part of my grandsons' world. What's bred in the bone, I guess. Who seem to be good at this grandparent stuff is my ex-husband and his wife. They show up and are entirely appropriate. I teeter on the edge of mayhem. Really. Bad Gramma!