There are three kiddos in the back seat. One belongs to me. Two belong to Marion. They belong to us in much the same way as a borrowed blanket belongs to the borrower. They’re not really ours, but for as long as we have them, they are ours to enjoy and to spoil and to mess with and to return home once we are done.

This is the joy of grandkids.

Two boys. One girl. Ages 10, 9, and 7. They just met for the first time yesterday. The two boys rode down to my house with their “Moo” this morning.

Don’t even ask me about granny names and how they come to exist. I’m not sure why grandmama, or grandma isn’t sufficient. The ladies seem to need a personalized name, usually based on the first babble that comes from a non-verbal infant’s throat.

The child coughs or spits food. A sound emerges. Or perhaps she/he has a bad case of gas, and other sounds emerge. Grandma goes into ecstatic mode.

“Did you hear that?”

Most other humans within close proximity of the child hear some kind of guttural noise or some kind of babble that comes out between bubbles of spit.

“He said my name,” so claims the child’s grandmother.

Thus, we end up with names, in any language around the globe, that are not real names but representations of an infant’s attempt to expel pressure from within the oral cavity.

Another factor. I’m probably gonna pay for this, but there are also bragging rights at stake in the rush to be the first grandma who is called by name by the child in question. This occurs when there are two grandmas in the arena.

First there is coaxing and coaching. Lots of baby-talk. The hopes and aspirations of grandma-world are riding on whatever comes out of the kid’s mouth.

Any sound that comes out of the child’s mouth which could be interpreted as a cute or perhaps a tender call of affection will become the name. Consonants and vowels will be added by the grandma looking to be first, but credit will be given to the baby.

Blessed are the solo-grandmas, for they need not compete.

We are riding down to Columbus to take the kids to the Coca-Cola Space Science Center. I have nearly forgotten how energetic junior age kids can be when confined to the backseat of a vehicle.

First, there is a scramble for snacks. We are literally not out of the driveway yet, and they are hungry. It’s 9:45 in the morning. The sound of chip bags opening is overrun by giggles and threats to do bodily harm “unless you get your grimy hands outta my bag.” More giggles.

A full-on game of I Spy with My Little Eye ensues. The accusations of cheating and rule breaking are loud and apparently necessary. The players in back call for a judgment from the front seat, but the adults refuse to enter the fray. I’m busy driving, but it sounds like there are elbows involved, still playful. I definitely heard a few “nuh-uhs” and “not fairs” echo among the “oh mans”.

I am grateful this is only a 30-minute ride.

We roll into a parking slot off Front Avenue. The Science Center sits on a bluff above the river. The kids pile out and walk together like goats jumping and butting heads for the fun of it.

Because my buddy, Shawn, runs the science center the kids get some personal attention. He tells them asteroid stories, astronaut stories, and space shuttle stories. He is animated. He loves his job. He uses kid-words to describe NASA level details about engines and rovers and orbital maneuvers. He talks about physics and space flight and astronomical wonders to massive groups of school kids almost every day, so our three are easy-peasy.

The kids’ eyes are as big as saucers.

We look at artifacts from the Apollo missions. We put our hands on a tire from the space shuttle that carried John Glenn back into space. We fly our own mission and get our guts shaken during blast-off. We sit in the dark of the planetarium and learn what it takes to become an astronaut.

Lots of very cool kids’ stuff every where you look. They liked the Vortex the best.

This is basically a very playful vacuum system with large clear plastic pipes that swirl and twist and rise and fall against a 20ft high wall. The kids take what look like blue and yellow plastic shopping bags and stuff them through a hole. The Vortex sucks it out of their hand and takes it through the pipes at hyper-speed. Somewhere up in space, the bags shoot out of a pipe and float back to earth.

Repeat. Giggle. Shove. Squeal. Stuff. Run. Jump. Shout. Stuff again. I was exhausted just watching.

In the afternoon we ate pizza out on the sidewalk along Broadway. The sun was out. The street sounds echoed off the downtown buildings. It’s spring break. Moms and dads and kids are walking everywhere.

At the table, we all got into another game of I Spy. Then we played something called 21. I lost the first three games in a row in the first round. I suck at kids’ games. I used to not suck, but now I am good at watching them laugh. Slices of pizza disappeared too quickly.

On the ride back to my house, Moo treated the kids to some freeze-dried Neapolitan ice cream sandwiches from the gift shop at the Science Center. Supposedly, the nutritionists at NASA developed these specially for astronauts. The kids were super excited.

I could see their faces in the rearview mirror. I’ll just say that the first bite dulled the enthusiasm considerably. I heard at least one “gag-me”. A couple of them suffered through it. I took one sample bite and rolled my window down to practice spitting. Freeze-dried nutrition is not for the faint of heart.

One word of advice to aspiring young astronauts. Don’t eat the ice cream.

Back at the house, we still had about an hour to kill before the day had to end. They shot silly string. They played in the creek and got wet. We shot basketball. There was a long running game of tag.

I wish all of life could be so uncomplicated as this day. Not just the fun and games. I’m talking about the way these three got along. They barely know each other, yet they accept each other. Fully. They fuss a little bit, but they get through it.

They take life as it comes to them without complicated questions. They make the most of a life that is handed to them without trying to make it something it’s not. Part of being a kid is being wired to explore the new, adapt to the challenges, and do it all with a joy that is deep and pure.

Blessed are the children, for they teach us the lessons we all need.

And now that they are gone. Now that the house is quiet. Now that I’ve had time to reflect on this day.

I need a nap.