An enchanted diorama in the ‘burbs

I really like dioramas, the little handcrafted scenes first-graders create inside a shoe box. With dioramas, the important thing is to keep them simple.

A few years ago, for example, I helped one of the kids produce a rather faithful replica of the Winged Victory of Samothrace and other artwork from the Louvre, including some French stained glass from the 13th century depicting St. Blaise. It was a masterful reproduction. Some people (mostly me) even preferred it to the original artworks. I was particularly proud of the Pantone mix we used to achieve the unusual shade of heaven in the stained glass. Took 100 attempts to get the blues just right.

So anyway, we’re working on the little guy’s first diorama. Looking for something novel, I suggest a reenactment of Washington crossing the Delaware as it would’ve looked if they’d brought along their wives and girlfriends. Traveling together can be so tricky. There’d be a lot of arguing on the boat, and several of the men would probably jump overboard. I thought including the wives would add a dramatic element to an already epic event.

Instead, our first-grader insists on a diorama of the ocean. As if we haven’t seen that a million times.

“It has to be a habitat, Dad,” he says.

“OK, sure,” I say with a shrug.

Meanwhile, the college girl has arrived home after a sensational freshman year. All the college kids are back in town, smelling like dorm rooms and smoky jeans. Eight months away and some of them forgot to shower. Oops. It’s like hosting the French.

The first summer home, after freshman year, makes for some interesting adjustments. My wife, Posh, freaked out the first time her little girl stayed out until 2 a.m., when for all Posh knew, it was the earliest the little girl had been home in months.

When not driving her mother crazy, the college girl is interning at some agency here in town. She came home after the first day and chirped: “I boxed and bagged a bunch of gowns for Beyoncé today. I handed a messenger an envelope for Hilary Duff. My life is sooooo great.”

Obviously.

My buddy Rhymer, who also suffers from having a college daughter, suggests that this would be a summer for swapping children, since the kids are way more respectful toward adults who are not their own parents.

I blame over-mothering, the common problem of mothers who mother too much, thereby producing kids who can’t do a thing for themselves. Want to stir up the conversation at your next dinner party, bring up the federal debt or over-mothering. Either topic is sure to get a rise. The two issues may well be connected, but only tangentially — in the way skinny dipping can affect the tides.

Anyway, Rhymer, who is a freethinker — I compare him to Milton or even Locke — thinks that if the college kids were to summer at other houses besides their own, it would make for a much more civil experience for everyone.

As luck would have it, all my friends are millionaires, so that would bode well for our daughter, who would see an instant jump in her standard of living. She’d have her own bedroom for the first time in her life, she’d have access to a car and a closet full of shoes, more shoes than a girl could ever wear.

The only drawback would be the poor child who ended up at our place, which used to be a Dairy Queen, till Wienerschnitzel bought it and put on that crazy red roof. We converted it to a private residence years ago, but you wouldn’t believe how many cars still pull up at midnight and ask for the No. 2 combo meal. Rather than argue, we just serve them.

That’s one reason you’re always hearing Posh yodeling: “GIMME A No. 2, EASY ON THE ONIONS.” (For her birthday, I’m promoting her to night manager.)

So, yeah, living with us will be

a treat for any college kid. Our life is unconventional and occasionally insane. We get excited about little things, like making dioramas. And at Christmas, when a box with bubble wrap arrives, everything stops till we’ve popped

and stomped every last one. I’d liken it to harvest time in the Loire Valley, when the very best grapes come in.

If nothing else, our house offers a playful, almost collegiate experience. There’s one little dude —soooo cute — who likes to stand around in just a moose hat and flipflops. Posh screams “Put on some pants, you idiot!” but it does no good.

Because after a while, I’ve learned to just tune her out.

chris.erskine@latimes.com