The More Things Change. . .

Sometimes, change comes rushing at you, like the wind before a wall cloud. Other times, it is sneaky and nearly imperceptible, like the realization that you no longer like Froot Loops or Space Food Sticks.

Maybe it's the gray, cool June weather. For whatever reason, these days I find myself facing myriad changes in my own life. And, while none may be life-threatening, each one is, in its own ways, life-altering, thank you very much.

Like the fact that I might as well rip our phone from its wall mount. (Yeah, we still have a wall-mounted phone, although it is not rotary-dial.) A few weeks ago, son Eric joined our friend Allison's family cell-phone plan, essentially eschewing our land line in favor of (stomach contents, beware!) the wild world of texting.

According to daughter Allison, Eric's a throwback, an almost laughable, one-fingered QWERTY convert, but, apparently, he's good enough that his friends have quit talking to his 'rents (post-modern information-age code for "Mark and me"). That is the saddest shrapnel of this digital conversion--the elimination of Beaver-Cleaver-esque conversations between Kellen and Dylan, Kate and Robert and me.

Based on the silence of our phone, for all I know, Eric has no friends whatsoever. . . just like I suddenly have no interest whatsoever in fireworks.

While poring over this morning's paper (itself a dinosaur simply waiting for its own ice age to set in), I happened upon a full-page ad for a local fireworks business. There, in glorious 4-color flash, laid out like pyrotechnic porn, were lusty illustration and scandalous text, each describing the latest in seasonal firepower.

And I was remiss to take notice.

Me, the person who used to calculate how many meals my family could miss simply so that I could acquire more bang for my buck. Me, who used to wake even earlier than usual on the opening day, when each tent flipped up its flaps to reveal that seedy, explosive world inside. Me, who, one fireworks season, actually tipped over a Burley filled with a young Eric in my haste to make it to what I was sure was the best stand in town.

Apparently, I am so over the Fourth, except for the desserts and smoky beans it offers. Oh, and the smoke bombs. I still really like those.

And, considering what I look like in a swim suit, I might even nearly be over the allure of chlorinated water, although I'm slower to make that change, even despite what I look like in my padded "mom" suit.

Indeed, this has been a transformational summer for me, one for which I have mixed feelings, at best.