This past weekend we celebrated Kaiya’s 6^th birthday with a delightfully fun party at the house of her mom and dad. Kaiya’s Kounty Fair, they dubbed it. There were games and prizes and every kind of fun food you would imagine there would be at a county fair. Lots of work for mom and dad, but a great result.

Every weekend, at least one of my grandkids is going to a birthday party for someone or other. Cousins, school friends, church friends, every age, gender and ethnic background. Lots of birthday parties. Monkey Business, Skate City, Jump Street, Water World, Chuck E. Cheese, multiple other venues.

Somewhere in a photo box far, far away, there is a picture of my sister Jennifer’s first birthday party. The gathering consisted of Bec and me and two neighbor girls who were about our age, and a birthday cake. I recall that the photo shows all of the girls dressed to the nines. I think I remember that photo so well because having a birthday party at all was unusual. Perhaps we all got a party on our first birthday.

I never cease to be amazed at how much time and energy is spent entertaining children on their birthday these days. It’s a wonder the Baby Boomer generation isn’t made up entirely of serial killers as a result of birthday party deprivation. Maybe others were luckier than I, but I simply don’t recall attending a lot of birthday parties as a kid. And I certainly don’t recall my mother and father providing a party every year for my siblings or me.

I’m truly not being critical. The parties are tons of fun for the kids. But it just seems like it’s another example of the planned activities and fun kids experience nowadays as opposed to the more spontaneous activities of Baby Boomers. The lack of spontaneity is no doubt a result of a more dangerous world in which kids can’t just be sent off in the morning to play with their friends all day, coming back home at the dinner bell.

We had dinner the other night with one of my friends who is the mother of 6-year-old twins. As usual, when she was leaving, we vowed to get together more often. We frequently promise to do just that, but don’t get around to it often enough.

“We are just so busy,” she said.

And man, ain’t that the truth. Well, actually there’s no “we” about it. I’m retired. I’m not that busy. But parents of young kids just seem to be running all of the time. And it’s even worse if both parents work outside the home, as is the case with my friend.

I would love to have the point of this blog post be that parents should just slow down (frankly, I would love this blog post to have a point at all!), but I don’t think it’s possible. There are only so many minutes in a day and only so many days in a week, and most parents do the best that they can.

Still, I would love my grandkids to experience a summer day in 1960 just to see what it feels like to be completely free.

On the other hand, perhaps if I had experienced more organized activities, I might have learned to roller skate and swim!

I’ll love you forever,

I’ll like you for always,

As long as I’m living

My baby you’ll be.

Those words are from a children’s book written by Robert Munsch called Love You Forever. The book is actually kind of bizarre, though the sentiment – that parents love their children forever — is sweet. At one point in the book, the mother looks through her grown son’s window, then comes in and takes the adult man into her arms while he continues to sleep in order to recite the above poem to him. Yeah, now that’s just creepy. I promise I won’t ever do this.

I had actually never heard of the book, but my very good friend gave me a copy of the book when my mother died. Creepy or not, the book made me bawl like a baby.

I have said before and I will say again that when Bill and I got married, his kids became mine and mine became his. Nevertheless, Bill and I each have a special feeling and relationship about and with our birth children. We were, after all, with them even before they were born. We helped shape and mold them from the time they could walk and talk. Their first words were Mama and Dada, and that meant us! Having stepchildren is simply a bonus gift from God.

I have lunch with my birth son Court once a week or so, and I look forward to it a great deal. It’s fun to sit and talk about his grown up life. I love hearing about his job, and laugh at his stories about his kids. I’m very happy that he lives close to me and I have the opportunity to see him often.

The thing is, as parents, we never stop loving our children. The relationship between children and parents is one that, if it’s as it should be, provides security in a world that is often crazy. If you can’t trust your mom or your dad, who can you trust?

And when Court calls me and asks to meet me for lunch or a drink after work, or maybe come for dinner, I feel like a teenager who just got asked to the prom by the quarterback. So very pathetic.

But it isn’t just me. Bill is the same way. Last winter when we were in Arizona, Bill’s middle son Dave was able to visit us since he had a work-related meeting in Phoenix. Bill was understandably excited to see him, and eagerly awaited his arrival. He spent the entire day preparing the house. He bought new outdoor plants. He sprayed our grass so that it would be really green. He watched the progress of Dave’s plane on his smart phone like it was carrying Lord Grantham and he was the valet Mr. Bates (Downton Abbey? People. I shouldn’t have to explain this!)

He did the same more recently as we awaited the arrival of Heather and Lauren and the boys. Cleaned, straightened, tracked their flight. And nothing makes him happier than when all three of his kids are at his dinner table.

My guess is, however, that his kids would never suspect that to be the case. He greets them pleasantly, but with no overt enthusiasm. He is a man, after all. Can’t display our feelings….

A recent political television ad told me (and you KNOW you can trust everything those ads say) that one-third of adult children between the ages of 18 and 31 live with their parents. I did my own double check on that fact because it seemed really high to me. What I learned is that the census data from which this number comes includes college students who live away from home during the academic year. Nevertheless, the number is striking.

Court lived with us for a while as he finished college here in Denver. It worked fine, but he was as eager to move out on his own as we were to say goodbye.

Here’s the thing: your kids are always your kids, even when they’re all grown up. You interact differently with them than you did when they were inquisitive 3-year-olds or sassy 12-year-olds. You don’t necessarily sleep with one ear waiting for the telephone to ring like you did when they were 16 and out with your car.

But you worry just the same. You want to make their lives easier if you can. You want to help them make good decisions if you are able to do so without being a buttinsky, though that’s nearly impossible.

And you love them forever.

You just don’t peek in their windows.

If I hadn’t been in the hospital the day she was born – six years ago yesterday – I would swear Kaiya was switched at birth. She was clearly born to be a princess! After all, when she was a mere 1-year-old, she carried a Hello Kitty purse. Her first word was “pink.”

Well that last part’s not true, but the part about the purse is pure fact. I’m not sure what 1-year-olds carry in a purse, but sometimes you just need to accessorize.

She is small as a minute and smart as a whip, and has her Papa Bill and me wrapped around her little finger. When I pick her up from school and watch her face light up when she sees me, it melts my heart.

She turned 6 yesterday, and will celebrate with her friends and family today.

Happy birthday Miss Kaiya. I’m glad you are in my life.

Pretty in pink.

Striking a model’s pose.

Happy with her ice cream cone.

Have a great weekend.

My 11-year-old granddaughter and her 9-year-old brother left yesterday on an airplane to visit their aunt in Bozeman, Montana. All by themselves. Yoiks.

Since they seem to get on each other’s last nerve much of the time, I was having a bit of difficulty picturing them sitting happily next to one another, actually, well, touching. Still, as siblings tend to do,

When no one’s looking Alastair and Addie actually hold hands!

Addie and Alastair stick together when necessary, so I expect they were there for one another

while traveling on the plane. Maybe even had some fun.

Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty we’re free at last.

And I KNOW they’ll have fun at their Aunt Julie’s house. It’s more fun than being at camp because they each get their own bedroom!

Preparing to board. Still smiling.

I don’t know why I was so disconcerted that they flew by themselves. My son Court was much younger than they when he flew unaccompanied the first time. I think he was only 5 or 6. His dad was at a work conference in Tampa Bay, and he flew out at the end of the week so that they could spend the weekend at Disney World. I think it might have been the first time he was ever at Disney World. I would venture to guess, by the way, that Court would say Disney World is his favorite place on earth.

Anyhoo, back in those days anyone could walk all the way to the gate with someone leaving on a plane, and be at the gate when they arrived. I was a nervous wreck because Tampa Bay is far away as you know, and the plane ride was several hours long. I had total confidence that his father would be at the other end as he had promised, but still – very scary.

I remember working very hard (and I think successfully) at acting calm and grown up. As for Court, he was a bit nervous, but not overly so, and I wanted him to stay that way. When it was time to board the plane, he boarded last. The flight attendant came over, took him by the hand, and led him away. I waved goodbye, fake smiling until my cheeks hurt. But just as soon as the doors closed, I sat down on one of the chairs and bawled like a baby.

He made it safe and sound and his father called me just as soon as he had him in his keep.

Court flew as an unaccompanied minor one more time, and randomly, it was again to Tampa Bay. This time I had a work conference, and our plan was the same as the previous plan. Pick him up at the Tampa airport, rent a car, and drive to Orlando for the weekend. Court was maybe 8 by this time. I was less nervous, even though this time he had to change planes.

But when I retrieved him at the airport, he had a very funny story to tell. On the first leg of the flight, he sat next to an elderly woman who spent the entire flight telling him about all of her experiences with aliens. She had, she said, been abducted several times.

Being only 8, he was forced to be polite and listen, but even though a mere youth, he knew the woman was cray-cray, and couldn’t wait for the flight to be over.

But here’s the thing. The woman was so pleased to have a captive audience that she took it upon herself to get her seat changed so as to be next to him for the second leg of the trip. Yes Friends, he had to listen to another hour of alien stories.

So, the point of this mostly pointless rambling story is that even though they might get on each other’s nerves, what you know is often better than what you don’t know. I don’t think either Addie or Alastair has ever been abducted by aliens. As long as they can put up with, well, touching.

I’ve never seen days go by so fast

A little more sand falling through the glass

She was hot as July and sweet as sunshine.

Oh, she could’ve been mine

But we ran out of summertime.

From Out of Summertime by James Timothy Nichols and Jonathan Singleton

I love this song performed by Scotty McCreery on his debut album Clear as Day. While I’m not concerned about a girl who’s “hot as July and sweet as sunshine,” I well understand the feeling of running out of summertime.

My herb pots and columbine in June.

Every year about this time, I begin feeling as though I’m running out of summertime. I know, I know. I have poked fun at my mother who used to get this feeling around the Fourth of July. Still, about this time every year, my tomatoes begin drying up and stop bearing fruit, the petunias start getting leggy, and I fight disinterest in watering the whole kit and caboodle.

The sun is rising sometime around 6:15 or so, which, looking on the bright side, allows me to sleep a bit later. But at the same time, I have to turn on my living room lamp around 8:30 in the evening so that I can see my way upstairs.

Even the foxes are making themselves much more scarce.

Here’s the funny thing, though. Once I get past the end of August, I feel a bit better. I actually like Indian Summer a great deal. I love the fact that the days are warm and the nights are chilly. Our backyard aspen trees start will start changing colors, and the apples and pears will be ready to be picked from our trees and made into delicious pies, cobblers and crisps. I can almost smell the cinnamon. I have a recipe for a pear caramel tart that I’m determined to try this year.

It really is just the latter part of August that makes me somewhat forlorn. I’m sad to see my grandkids go back to school, which – for most of them – will happen August 25. The good news, however, is that they don’t share my sadness at the return of school days. In fact, all of them are excited to get back to their school routine. That makes me happy. I will tell you that there was never a single time in my life when I was happy to go back to school. Didn’t happen. But they are, and that’s good.

Here are a few shots of my flowers early in June…..

Dianthus were in full bloom early this summer.

Snow in the Summer. Lovely, no?

Here is my somewhat sad looking flora today……

Pitiful.

So sad.

Leggy, but still pretty.

The good news though?

Football.

At one point during Heather and Lauren’s recent stay with us, we had a total of 13 pieces of electronic equipment accessing our wireless network at one time.

That’s right – 13. Four smart phones, five IPADs, two laptop computers, and two Nook tablets/ereaders.

Can you imagine? And the grandkids know how to use every last one of them. And when I say the grandkids, I am including Micah, who turned 2 yesterday.

I’m dead serious. At one point he had in his hot little baby hands one of the smart phones and he was playing music using an app called Spotify. I’m presuming an adult originally connected him to the program (though I’m not convinced that is necessarily true), but once he had access, he knew exactly how to play the music and select a new song. So there he was, his little 2-year-old self, listening to the music coming from the phone in his hand, bopping his head in time to the music. WITH COMPLETE AND PERFECT RHYTHM. (I feel compelled to add that when a hip-hop or rap song would come on, his mom would grab the phone and move it quickly to the next song. Thank goodness. We don’t need those words to be among his first.)

When he would tire of a song, he would go to the next. I’m not making this up.

And Micah isn’t alone in his technological skill. When Jen’s grandson Austin was 2, he was playing with her smart phone. When he returned it to her, she noticed her phone icon was missing from the phone’s desktop. Somewhat panicked that she now had a phone from which she didn’t know how to make telephone calls (because we Baby Boomers need pictures donchaknow), she frantically handed it back to him and explained that she needed her phone icon back. He complied.

I’m asking again, can you imagine?

I, for one, know just enough about my smart phone to be dangerous. But I find the whole social scene around technology to be fascinating.

We were recently at a restaurant at which there were a large number of young adults. In fact, I felt a bit like the chaperone at my senior prom. Anyhoo, as I glanced around, I noticed that at somewhere around three-quarters of the tables, someone was looking at his or her smart phone. I watched one particular table at which a young couple, who I would venture to guess were just dating and not married, sat. The young man spent nearly the entire time looking at his cell phone. He would occasionally say something to the woman, and she would answer, but he didn’t look away from his phone. The thing is, she didn’t seem to be a bit distraught about this phenomenon. It’s the new reality, I guess.

I try not to judge. I used to get annoyed when I would take my grandkids to the park and look around to see nearly all the adults accompanying children looking at their smart phones instead of interacting with their children. But I don’t know their stories. My daughter-in-law pointed out to me that perhaps the adults are actually working away from home, and their presence keeps the children out of daycare. Who knows?

It’s all of no matter because smart technology is here to stay. And human nature is human nature. We now have instant access to information. I am as addicted to Wikipedia as the next guy. My IPAD is the first thing I grab in the morning. From it, I read the paper, I check on the activities of my kids via Facebook, and I post my blog. Yesterday evening I sent a text to someone who didn’t respond immediately and I was frustrated. Bill laughed at my impatience.

“This is what it’s come to,” he laughed. “We expect immediate access to absolutely everything and everyone.”

So true.

Nana’s Notes: You know by now that many of my blog post titles come from songs. Today’s title comes from a really sad song sung by the Carter Family. You can’t get any sadder than a lot of the old hillbilly music. That was looooooong before technology.