The wife and I went to the house of gnome for dinner this past Saturday. My daughter and son-in-law invite us over every few months – the timing coincides with the expiration of their 90-day guilt warranty.

I’m quite fond of dining with the alpha son-in-law – I can always count on Jay to be grilling a huge slab of Grade A New York strip and pumping me full of 12-year-old Scotch.

Granted, the Scotch is so I’ll speak with a loosened tongue and share with him horror stories about my daughter and her youthful exploits, but I enjoy telling them almost as much as he takes pleasure in hearing what kind of life he’s really carved out for himself.

Our youngest daughter and beta son-in-law never invite us over. They keep using lack of space in their apartment as an excuse, but the wife and I are hip to the real reason: neither one of them can cook.

Either that, or as we know from daily glances into her bedroom when she lived at home, Chelsea suffers from a horrifying allergic reaction to cleaning.

So as we entered the house of the grand gnome, the little imp met us at the door. Not regularly visiting the boy on his home turf has its drawbacks, the biggest of which is being brought up-to-speed on all the new toys collected since our last social call.

The kid has so many playthings I half expect to see Geoffrey the Giraffe lounging about the basement.

After seeing the play heap in the living room; scoping the ‘Justin area’ of his parent’s bedroom; and navigating the mounds of outdoor toys on the patio, the little gremlin prodded us to go up and see his newly redecorated bedroom.

‘Car up stair,’ he said, pointing his portly little finger at the ceiling.

The ‘cars’ in question were actually Disney/Pixar Cars, and his new room had more Lightening McQueen memorabilia than an Orlando flea market.

After the tour of toy landfill number four, we saddled up to the dining table and glommed a couple pounds of sizzling beef, baked taters and mounds of Caesar salad. And that was just my grandson’s portion.

For dessert we had ‘cream.’ In toddler translation, ‘cream’ is actually the whipped topping that sits lightly on the summit of a perfect parfait crafted by one of our local grocers.

I came bearing parfaits the last time I dined in the house of gnome, and the boy was so enamored with the delectable dessert that he ate an entire cup.

And because I am grandpa, I let him. And to reiterate that I am indeed grandpa, he got his own cup of ‘cream’ this time, too. 

Armed with two spoons and a vat of cherry-flavored heaven, Justin and I began a serious march through our dinner’s fruity finishing touch.

That is until my daughter - or Chairman Mao as she’s known to my grandson – decided that the little guy’s dessert time had come to an end.

“All right, Justin, one more bite and that’s enough,” the head of the communist party announced, “It’s time to get you cleaned up and into your pajamas.”

‘Un mo bite,’ the gnome replied, and I obliged with a hearty spoonful.

‘Last bite,’ was the dictator’s retort.

‘Un mo bite,’ the gnome repeated, and again I filled his cake-hole with, naturally, more cake.

Finally, after the fifth, sixth and seventh last bite (and same number of exchanges with The Chairman), I informed Justin that I make the rules around here and he could sit in his high chair until he had natural cherry flavoring running from his ears.

“Well, that rule-making stuff may apply at grandpa’s house,” my daughter growled, “But mommy makes the rules in this house.”

Which certainly didn’t come as news to my son-in-law. 

But I do think someone needs a refresher on the two permanent parental regulations. Rule one: grandfathers are not subject to rules. Rule number two: you can’t change rule number one.

And just for the record, the boy and I finished that parfait.

Here’s hoping my daughter was in charge of the first Sunday morning diaper change.

By J. Doug Gill