Children make the world go away. It's that simple.

The barrage of bad news on radio and TV, in newspapers and books, the endless deceit and fraud and abuses and lies, public and private, all the wars and broken hearts and broken bodies and broken dreams.

World without mend, amen.

Children displace these things. Not forever, but for a while.

They can be grandchildren, nieces or nephews, a neighbor's children, or a stranger's child. All children are sorcerers, enchanters, casting spells, turning straw into gold.

My grandchildren are my current wizards, clomping up the back stairs in rubber boots, racing into my house and bringing in not just snow and cold but joy, too. And, for as long as they are here laughing and squealing and squawking and chasing each other, Fisher Price Little People all over the floor, Dora and Diego on TV, toys and books everywhere. "Can I have a cookie, Mimi? Can I have candy, a banana, water?" For as long as we are playing Crazy Eights, Candy Land, and War, the card game, the real thing is off stuck in a corner somewhere, next to fear and worry and all the problems of the day, ignored, even ostracized, for a while.

Joy reigns. And life is good.

Lucy is 5, Adam is 4, Charlotte, 21 months, and Megan, 18 months. All of them together and each of them apart can cast a spell that dispels whatever gray is clouding a day. "Who can make a rainy day smile at me in such a sunny way? Ask and you'll hear my heart say, who else but you?" I sing to them, an old Frankie Avalon song, whose words I always butcher. But they don't know this. They think I make up songs. They think that I am funny and clever and wonderful, which is exactly what I think about them.

This is our alchemy and our golden goose.

You don't have to do much to bewitch a child. "One more story, please!" One more song. One more game of cards. A few M&Ms. A milkshake. A hug. A kiss.

And the spell is cast.

I took Lucy and Adam to the movies one afternoon during school vacation week. The place was packed. We had to wait in a long line to buy tickets. And we never bought candy because there was an even longer line at the concession stand and the movie was starting and we had to get seats.

We saw "The Tale of Despereaux" and they were transfixed. After, while we sat in traffic for 20 minutes, I popped in their favorite CD and we sang as we inched our way out of the parking lot. Then it was 20 more minutes to the pizza place. Then another long wait for the pizza.

There were no crayons at the restaurant and I expected a meltdown. But I had pens and they had the back of their paper place mats. And we drew mice and practiced our letters until the pizza came.

And when it did, they didn't say it was too thick or too thin, too cold or too hot. They didn't complain that there was hamburger and not meatballs on the top. "It's perfect, Mimi," they said.

A few slices of pizza, ordinary tap water, and a movie. This is what it took to make two children happy. And because they were happy, I was happy, too.

They came back to my house. No evening news. A bubble bath and "Mercy Watson to the Rescue" instead.

"Bye, Mimi, I love you," Lucy said and went home with her mom. Adam slept over. We read a few more books, sang a few songs, then I kissed him goodnight.

"Did you think the cat in the movie was scary?" he asked as I shut off his light.

"I think everything is scary," I wanted to say. But instead I told him that, no, I didn't think the cat was scary, but if I were a mouse I'd sure be scared.

"I'm glad I'm not a mouse," Adam said.

"Me, too, Buddy. I'm glad you're you."

"Goodnight, Mimi."

"Goodnight, Adam."

They are all good nights and good days whenever the children are here.