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Although my husband and I were both raised on a farm, we are the last generation in our immediate family to do so. My daughters were both raised in a small town and they have since moved on to the Twin Cities, so my grandsons are bona fide “city slickers” by farm standards.

While visiting Grandma and Grandpa’s house in a small town last month, the grandsons were then invited to visit at a small farm nearby. This is when the differences became painfully apparent.

The boys were greeted by two farm dogs when they arrived. The dogs were polite and friendly, checking them out as they arrived on their territory, but the boys were charmed by the fact that they didn’t knock them over like their grandpa’s hunting dog did. Then, the cat joined in, rubbing against their feet as they walked. They seriously wanted to take that friendly farm cat home—to their third floor apartment.

The best was yet to come, though. Standing and lying in the first fence were two cows. Those were bigger than anything those two boys had ever seen. With big eyes and cautious feet, they went around the large livestock with great respect and no interest in approaching them. They were invited to pet the lambs and they did so tentatively, but even these were a little awe-inspiring to a couple of boys who live in the city.

The pigs were fascinating. They were having a nice mud bath when the boys got there and there was nothing they would have liked better than to have joined them. They loved the soft grunting noises and the older one had to be persuaded that these grunts were indeed the oinks that their “Old Macdonald” song had led them to expect.

Their reaction to the chickens was the best, however. They loved the fact that they had found an animal on the farm that was more afraid of them than they were of it. In addition, they were fascinated by the notion that this animal would lay eggs (yes, just like the ones they got from the store). Unfortunately, a quick check of the hen house revealed no eggs at that time, so they tended to look upon the whole egg-laying theory as a kind of an “urban myth” if you’ll forgive the expression.

The chickens proved to be a wild good time. The boys chased them all around the chicken coop and before they were done with the cackling, flapping birds, they had even shaken up the sheep until they joined the race and ended up squeezing themselves out of the henhouse and into the chicken yard via the chicken door flap. They were highly confused by this, but the boys were thrilled. Arthur stuck his head out the window of the chicken coop calling, “Here chicky, chicky, chicky,” with no regard to whether he was addressing chickens or sheep. In all fairness, I think the chickens and sheep were pretty confused too!

Arthur discovered that he could crawl under and climb over most of the fences, and when he was given a dozen eggs laid by the hens he was happy with his visit. He became hysterical when we got home, however, when he saw me crack one of the eggs and put it in food. “The chickens gave me those eggs and you broke it.”

Royce was somewhat quiet after we had come home. He didn’t say too much about the animals and when asked about it, he just said the farm was fine. When it came time for bed that night, however, he said, “Grandma, I don’t want you to be a teacher. I want you to be a farmer.”

“Really?” I replied, my mind obviously not following his.

“Yeah,” he said enthusiastically, “because then you would have all kinds of animals.”

That’s my little farmer boys!

I always have the television on when I am home, mostly for the background noise. I was working this morning and the movie, Mamma Mia! came on. Most people won’t admit it, but I for one, kind of like this loosely-woven story wound around some good songs—mostly ABBA. My favorite song in that movie is one I can’t identify by title, however. It’s the song Meryl Streep sings as she’s helping her daughter get dressed for her wedding, contemplating the rapid passing of time.

“School bag in hand, she waves goodbye with an absent-minded smile,” go the words, ending with, “Slippin’ through my fingers all the time.” Sentimental thoughts, but for nearly every parent alive, so true. We get so lost in the day to day tasks of being a parent, that we forget the fact that our children grow more each day into the human beings they are going to become.

I remember worrying about my daughters getting good grades, making friends so they would be happy and achieving things, the evidence of which I could hang on the wall and claim bragging rights. I look back now and realize that sometimes I lost the valuable moments in a flurry of worry about things that in the long run don’t matter. Their grades will be what they want, friends can sometimes be more of a burden than a joy and all those accomplishments are intended to shape their character, not inflate mine.

What I remember best, though, are the times I sat deliberately alone in the bedroom, because I knew one or both of them would show up. Sometimes we talked, sometimes we read books, sometimes we just sat together. I took them out to breakfast on Saturdays, because I liked doing that, and I think at times it made them uneasy, but I remember some real conversations there, too. And how fast it went; those fleeting years when they still believed I knew what I was talking about. And there was me, forgetting that it was ‘slippin’ through my fingers.

Young mothers, frazzled, worried, harried, are told over and over, “Enjoy them, because it goes fast.” Most times they look up from whatever childish disaster they are fielding and nod, but it frequently doesn’t sink in until that child is wearing a mortarboard and gown, or perhaps wedding clothes. Sometimes it’s just when the child heads out on their first adventures alone.

Perhaps that’s why grandparents indulge their grandchildren. They get a second chance to pour too much ketchup into the plate if the child wants it or serve morning Fruit Loops on an upturned laundry basket, because the child wants to watch cartoons in the living room with breakfast. Personally, I send boxes of treats to my grandchildren, not because they need anything, but because I remember being that age and loving to get a package of anything in the mail.

For the most part, children turn out the way they are supposed to, perhaps in spite of us as parents. As parents, however, we have a duty to ourselves to appreciate every moment, when they are small, when they are growing and when they establish lives of their own. I love that song, even if it’s part of a not-so-great movie, because it reminds me that no matter the age, we must not let the time go “slippin’ through our fingers” without savoring the moment. “School bag in hand, she waves goodbye with an absent-minded smile….” Yes, I love that song and I love that thought.

It’s been a hectic holiday season, and I was able to spend the majority of that with my children and their children. It was crazy and fun, but it also made me give a lot of thought to how my role as a parent has changed.

It’s an odd coincidence that my daughter just wrote about how she feels my parenting as she was growing up had some benefits for her, because I, too, believe that there were a few (perhaps only a few) moments in their childhood when I managed to be a competent parent. I actually never even doubted that, even while I know that like all parents, I made some glaring mistakes.

My problem, as it appears to me now, is how do I act as a parent when my children are now adults and with some children of their own? Obviously, I’m no longer giving out allowances or setting curfews, but is there still a place for parenting with your adult children?

I find I’m more apt to hand out advice now than I was when they were children. I tell them how to handle family relations, what to say to their doctors, how to manage their study time and what to use to clean their toilets. Even as I am saying these things, and I can read from their polite expressions that they find me intrusive, I know in my own mind that it is not necessary. I know that I can be a help to my children without burdening them with a step-by-step instruction on how to run their lives, something I seldom troubled to do to them when they were still children at home.

I have to remember that the decisions they make now are not just concerning themselves; they have significant others, different lifestyles and different philosophies to consider. But there are still things I can do, right? One thing I’ve got to learn not to do is open the checkbook too often. Even my children tell me I have a habit of distributing money too quickly, when sometimes they need to work out what they need on their own.

So, except for curing my quick-draw on the checkbook, what else can I do to prove that I am a parent, but that I also know that my children are grown? How do I tell my children that I’m proud of their educational endeavors without sounding condescending? How do I express that I think their choice of significant others is both sound and intelligent without sounding creepy? How do I offer advice or opinions without sounding as though I think they don’t know how to do it?

I contemplated this during my entire holiday with them. I do a lot of the clean-up in the kitchen simply because I like to leave the house in good shape when I go home. I was glad of this on Christmas night, because I found myself caught in an attack of the “weepies” (I can’t call them baby blues at this age), because I felt myself inadequate as the parent of adults. I was able to spend a few minutes alone, counseling myself on this question.

I think the answer I came up with is pretty brilliant. The answer is, that my parenting of my children is not what defines me or them. I can be their support and I can offer my opinions, but life does not balance on whether or not they follow me like willing sheep (I really don’t want that, by the way). I can appreciate them as both family and a part of my world, as long as I have other things there, because I no longer need to spend all my time setting their curfews or giving out allowances (okay, I’m really going to work on that open checkbook thing.)

By the time I was finished with the kitchen and headed back out to join the Christmas crowd, I had not only re-gained my holiday spirit, but I found myself with a huge surge of enthusiasm for the coming year. I can’t explain why, but I have the most optimistic feeling about the future right now and I think it boils down to the fact that I have come to grips with my role as a parent of adults.

So, I will try to compliment without instructing, listen without directing, and most of all, I will try to enjoy the wonderful adults they have become…whoever is responsible for it!

I’m sure there are plenty of people who will shoot me for this, but I absolutely love a genuine snow day. When I have no place to go, and no livestock outside, I love to curl up with a blanket and maybe a good book and just stay out of the weather.

I will even wake up particularly early on a day when school has been canceled, or we’re having a weekend break. I want to enjoy the snow day to the limit. And I’m always a little disappointed, when on days like today, the weather dies down early. I want my full day indoors…with electrical power, of course.

Once that one day is over, however, I want it to be just that OVER. I want the roads to be clear, the snow to be melting so it won’t blow again and everything to be moving normally. I don’t want to sleep through the night, listening to the weather blowing fiercely and I don’t want a second day of curlling up with a book that nine times out of ten wasn’t that great. Just one really good, authentic snow day and no more. That’s not too much to ask, is it? Unless, of course, you live in South Dakota–the state whose nickname should be “Our weather is a law unto itself.”

I baked some cookies and made some ornaments and wrapped all the rest of my Christmas gifts because I was indoors. I suppose now I have nothing left but to do that thing which I hate the most…clean!

It’s been a very difficult week but high points have included my children (okay, so my grandchildren were there too) on Skype, with no bad news to deliver and the first of the Christmas cards arriving. I love those…usually full of letters and news and pictures.

I’m still searching for that extra time, but I tell myself I’ll find more time after the holidays. I won’t be making gifts or baking or etc. However, it is my goal to find some time for exercise before the holidays..It might be hard to do, but I need to stop finding excuses to do no more than spend a few minutes on the treadmill.