It’s a balmy 95 degrees, the cicadas are humming the old familiar summertime lullaby, and somewhere off in the distance a bell clangs as the ice cream truck lumbers down a nearby street. Too soon it will be the sound of a school bell ringing in a new school year. But for now, an afternoon spent swaying in a hammock is all that is on my agenda. Tonight after dinner, a rousing game of capture-the-flag using my mother’s potholders will polish off a perfect day, after which I will drift off to sleep, dreaming of more perfect days to come. It’s 1972, and I am just 10 years old.

I gaze at my youngest child running around outside, with the neighborhood kids, arms dripping from a different color Popsicle, with nothing more important to do than play with each other. They dismiss the concept of time and are exasperated that I cannot achieve the same. Dinner is still hours away, tomorrow hasn’t been thought of, and school? HA! – it’s not until next year. They parade around the neighborhood stalking squirrels, bunnies, men from outer space – anything their vast imaginations will allow. A picnic table makes a terrific fort, sticks are the ultimate defense and shadows are the enemy. They are all learning to compromise, stand up for themselves, play as a team, and grow. Often they lament, “I can’t wait to be a grown-up, so I can do anything I want to do and always have fun.” Should I shatter the reality of the grown-up world? Certainly not! For I too lament – I just want to be a kid again and play all day and have fun! But the truth is, I wouldn’t go through the angst-ridden teen years again. SO if that is what would follow, no thank you. I’m quite happy right where I am – fully aware of the loss of my childhood innocence but readily available to witness it in my children.

Summertime is a wonderful opportunity to revel in our own childhoods. Who doesn’t like skipping stones at Loose Park? How can anyone not adore an icy treat sold from a gentleman in a white coat from a musical mobile? Who among us can turn down just-picked, sweet blueberries – perfect for popping into your mouth? And who can dispel the myth that is the “lazy days of summer?” Or for that matter – who would want to?

This summer, take a moment or two to go stand outside, close your eyes, breathe deeply, and remember your childhood summers. It’s a balmy 95 degrees, a light breeze brings the honeysuckle scent wafting past my nose, the cicadas are warming up for an evening of sheer symphonic sounds, the children have all drifted off to sleep, and my husband has just brought me a frozen concoction of pineapple juice, coconut and rum to polish off another perfect summer day. It’s 2010, and I am more than 10 years old. But I can still dream.

There’s a family getaway that I look forward to attending every year. This gathering doesn’t involve all of my family. In fact, my husband and children aren’t even included. It’s a girls-only trip organized by my cousin Kathy, who has been the official organizer for our Vegas Girls Trip for over two decades. I look forward to her e-mail announcing the plans each year since it conjures up all kinds of fun memories: flashing lights, ringing bells, incredibly hot weather, and staying up way too late!

Many of the cousins, sisters, aunts, and in-laws join in on this three-day excursion that will undoubtedly include telling stories late into the night and cheering each other on as we attempt to look like we know what we are doing at the card table. We will speak of trips from our past and times when one of us – rarely me, alas — won a big jackpot or perhaps had a little too much fun with the cocktails.

Kathy’s e-mail finally came last week. This time, though, there was a big change: we’re moving the date from October to January. In other words, there will be no 2010 trip. As we have grown older, we have helped each other weather the storms of infants, toddlers and middle and high school students. And now that many are in college, the fall becomes a challenge with the parent weekends at the varying schools. This year, I am part of this group. My oldest will be off to college, and I begin my trek into the world of not adding children to our family but actually letting them go.

This will be something to share with my cousins and sisters on the nights we stay up late, bonding over the issues of being in a new place in life. These are the women I continually learn from, in much the same way that my mom learned from her cousins and aunts during their twice-monthly poker games. (Has my family always pursued these conversations around a card game?) A lifetime of history with these people means tremendous trust, wonderful stories revived and a few pranks along the way. These strong connections are a lifeline for me.

Last month was the bi-annual Meiners-Hodes Family picnic, where more than a thousand men, women and children – all descendents of the German families who emigrated to Kansas City over a century ago and intermarried — gathered to celebrate the ties of a family that remains amazingly close-knit after two World Wars, Depressions and recessions, and the march of history. A thousand people? It sounds unusual to almost everyone I know, but in our extended family – a big one even decades ago – it was perfectly normal. I had so many cousins that were part of my life that I had more playmates than almost anyone I knew. We had sleepovers and shared every holiday. The people I knew best thought it was normal, too. They were a part of it! I was in college before I realized how truly special this situation really was.

Today, I am eternally grateful to have been born into a family that understands how important family connections are: the gift of sharing, of listening, of accepting the differences and eccentricities of so many different personalities because that’s the way life is. We stay connected because that is what we were taught: family is a treasure, and our connected lives are a gift.

Thankfully, our family stays connected in fun ways –picnics, trips to the lake in the summer and Vegas trips. It keeps us strong.

Independence Day has long been a holiday of sparklers, hot dogs, lemonade, and swimming. During my childhood, the holiday meant a long weekend at the lake with all my cousins and, on a more bittersweet note, that our precious summer vacation was already half-way over. But the joys of July 4^th, in my youth, had only the vaguest connection with the American Revolution and the events that led to the creation of the United States of America.

I pondered all that recently after spending time with my son and his playmates. Charlie and several neighbor friends were building a fort out of old wood and other odd things found in our basement. One of the children asked me exactly what we were celebrating, and I tried to explain what “freedom” meant. Freedom? I energetically launched into a monologue about human rights, injustices of the world, wars and differences of opinion. Suddenly, the youngster looked up at me and asked, “What does that have to do with free?”

I quickly realized I was not answering the particular question she was asking. “No honey, this holiday does not mean we get things for free. It means we are free to make choices and face the consequences of our actions.”

She shrugged and walked away, clearly confused about the situation. It’s a lesson I really want my children to understand completely. I believe if I can teach them this concept, I will have done them a great service. My children are getting older now: one is heading off to college this fall, and the others are able to have conversations about world events and understand how every action has consequences to many. The oil spill in the Gulf Coast, for example. Our son didn’t quite see how it would affect him. But that night at dinner when we didn’t have the shrimp he’d requested, I think I saw a light bulb turn on in his head. Later we watched the Oprah Winfrey-narrated Life and his understanding grew.

When it finally became dark enough for fireworks on the evening of July 4^th, it was raining and Charlie couldn’t set off his bottle rockets and sparklers. He was sad at first, then angry. But suddenly there was a break in the storms and the weather was mild enough for an opportunity to explode a few of his most grand selections. Unfortunately, it was also quite late and our neighbors have a new baby. Thus, my husband and I had to be wet blankets, as it were, and we disappointed his enthusiasm by saying “no” to the firework display. Right now, I don’t think he fully understands that freedom – in this case the freedom to celebrate a national holiday in a loud, ebullient style – comes with responsibilities, like being a good neighbor. He’ll remember this lesson one day when he’s a parent with a new baby in the house and the pre-teen living next-door is fighting to exercise his right to show his patriotic side with loud Roman candles.

In our next issue, we will feature significant coverage of The Jewel Ball. The young ladies and gentlemen who were presented to our community the evening of the Ball have made a distinctive rite of passage. Their own visibility in the community has been increased and with that step comes an understood sense of added responsibility. They are young adults now, making decisions that affect themselves and others. The Jewel Ball can be, for many, that first gentle nudge to remember the value of always keeping community and others in mind.

Please join me in wishing them luck as they use their freedom as newly-minted adults to make wise choices and take advantage of their unique opportunities to make grand contributions to our world.

I try to eat healthy. Seriously, I do.

I have been known to purchase every magazine perched near the check-out line at my grocery store with such promising headlines as “Lose 22 lbs in one week!” or “Are vitamin deficiencies causing you to gain weight?” I’ve studied and stared until my brain is filled with conflicting conclusions about what my body needs, and what to and not to eat. Such food information is always dancing in the back of my brain. Case in point: last night I was having dinner with some girlfriends at a nice restaurant. As we carefully selected our discreetly  ”light” dinners (Salmon salad with dressing on the side, or grilled chicken breast, no sauce, no potatoes – please!) one of the gals in our group, bucked the status quo and ordered an appetizer!

She planned to share the starter with the rest of us, but by our standards, it was heresy to order one. Still when it arrived at the table, the divine mushroom bruschetta, drizzled with olive oil (you know–the good fat), balsamic vinegar, a skosh of red pepper, and melted cheeses, was practically bubbling with temptation.

I hesitated even touching it, then recalled some advice given to me by my friend Joan O’Keefe. The three-bite rule. “Order something you really want,” Joan suggested, “and then only take three bites. It won’t kill your diet.”

I took three bites. Three wonderful, melt in my mouth gloriously decadent bites. I have re-lived these moments several times since then.

After the dinner plates were cleared away, the server asked if anyone had “left room for dessert?” That same rebel in our group ordered creme brulee cheesecake and a chocolate martini! Sadly, I had already used my three-bite pass. But my friend insisted that cheesecake could actually be healthy: it’s how she got her daily dose of calcium. Me? I’ve been chewing a piece of chalky chocolate dubbed “Calcium supplement” daily for seven years. NO satisfaction at all.

You might say that inspiration hit me right there on the spot. I went home to my trusty computer to see exactly what a 39 and 107 months old woman’s body needs daily. Calcium, folate, Sam-E, Vitamin D, Iron, Fiber, and Omega 3s.

I do get all those daily, but mostly in the form of 12 not too small pills. And to be safe, I throw in vitamins C, B and Co-Q 10. Then there’s a multivitamin and a little something to relieve aches and pains. Also I do try to work in the recommended fruits and veggies, too.

The following morning, I looked at my daily cocktail of vitamins, with a protein drink to wash them down and pushed it all away. Then I went to the pantry and found some fabulous things there. Cereal. Yes, the sugary kind that my kids love. Who knew that it was fortified with folate? Since I haven’t enjoyed a cereal morning in more than a few years, it was quite a treat.

I pulled a big slab of Black Angus porterhouse steak out of the freezer for my daily dose of iron to be eaten at dinner. Realizing I needed to get my requirements of veggies and fruit, I planned a succulent apple strudel for dessert and some healthy vegetable side dishes: twice baked potatoes and broccoli in cheese sauce (you know, for a little extra calcium). A superbly healthy dinner. I would have added the bread with real butter, but have recently been told by my doctor to eliminate wheat. Sigh…

Well, all was going well, until I realized I have no Omega 3s, so for lunch I went to a nearby seafood restaurant and tackled the blacked salmon Caesar salad. Fortunately it came with crispy fried onions on top–another veggie!

Adding up my veggies and fruit for the day, I realized I was still four short.

Oh dear, and I hadn’t tackled any vitamin D yet. Luckily by mid-afternoon, the fog had lifted from my decadent lunch, and I treated myself to a pineapple and banana shake. Two more fruits checked off the list! And I gathered my vitamin D by walking around in the sunlight to get that shake sans sunscreen! Voila!

This new plan was easier and way more fun than my container of pills each morning. That night, my family had dinner, did a little housework and watched the news. As luck would have it, one of the networks aired a report about the importance of eating ALL your fruits and veggies. SO at 10 p.m., I lumbered down to the kitchen to rummage for my three remaining necessities. I found a piece of leftover cheesecake in the back of the fridge for my calcium, and the strawberry glaze counted as a necessary fruit requirement, right? It’s such a great new diet. If only I could eat all of it in three bites.

If there’s a recipe for being a perfect mother, I’m still trying to work out the details. Take, for example, the relationship between a mom and a little boy. For a long spell, being a mom was almost an idyllic process. It certainly was for 12 years for my son Charlie and me. I could do no wrong. He preferred me to my husband when it came time to tuck him in each night, to share a soda with and to blow kisses. And I was his trendsetter. If I didn’t like certain items, he didn’t like them either, no matter that he hadn’t even tried them. As a result, mayonnaise, sushi and fiber cereals were not part of his culinary repertoire by virture of not being part of mine.

Being a good sport, Charlie shared my opinion on automobiles, liked the shirts I had chosen for him for years (standard little boy Gap variety, polo style with broad stripes – ALWAYS with a collar) and his red meat cooked well done. That’s right, very well done, without a hint of pink. That’s what I liked, and Charlie liked it, too.

My middle daughter followed this same advice for years until she had a revelation one night while eating at a friend’s house. The friend’s dad grilled steaks and served it up –rare style. That was enough for Sarah. She came home and announced quite firmly, that I had been buying the wrong kind of meat for our family.

“You need to buy,” she said, “the pink kind.”

From that day onward, she has been a rare meat girl, no matter what I liked.

But her younger brother continued to love steak the way I cooked it, almost to death. And I loved that about him.

But pedestals, as we all know, can be wobbly places for world leaders, movie stars and moms. One minute your little boy basks in your maternal glow; the next minute he’s finding fault with all your choices. Some people call this process “growing up.” I call it “The beginning of the End.”

All right, I’m half-kidding here. But I did realize my days as the Adored Mother were ending the night I came home from a meeting and found that my husband had grilled steaks for dinner. Charlie happened to taste beef the way his daddy liked it. Medium. And he loved it — having seconds and thirds. When I heard that news, I knew my days on the pedestal were numbered.

Today, my son opted for a shirt with no collar. I stopped in my tracks. Tomorrow he’ll be asking for sushi, the keys to a pick-up truck and a Snoop Dogg CD. I’ll be singing “Sunrise, Sunset” from Fiddler on the Roof!

But he’s informed me that I’m still allowed to tuck him into bed (unless he has a friend spending the night), so I have a few more months to be the almost-perfect, well-done mom.

And before I jump completely off the hot grill, as it were, I’ve noted that my family– like those of our friends–have been cooking at home more often, the economy being what it is.

So this summer, I’m throwing in the tongs and letting Chip cook all the steaks — I suppose it is time for me to give in and recognize that I may have my own tastes, but so do they. At least they still love my brownies. (But then — that recipe is really Aunt Donna’s!)