Feeling Bucolicky

Someone said to me recently (I almost said "today", but it could have been last week, it blends)
 "You have done a lot to give your children a bucolic upbringing."
My first thought was "What a lovely word, that, 'bucolic'."
My second thought was "Most of the word 'bucolic' is 'colic', a painfully debilitating, potentially deadly intestinal emergency in horses. Also, the term given to acute digestive pains in babies, causing them to cry incessantly."
Does not sound like something for which I will recieve any thanks from my children. "Thanks for the bucolicky upbringing, Mom."
Then, again, do we ever really properly thank our parents for the decisions they made in an effort to maximally benefit our childhoods?
Did I ever thank my parents properly for the freedom of my horses, my own underage NYC career, or building my sister her own room so I didn't have to share a bed any longer?
Did my suburban friends get around to saying "Thanks for the summer nights when you let me play 'Ghost in the Graveyard' with the neighborhood kids, Mom."
And my city friends?
"Thanks for letting me hang out at the bodega eating chips and playing pacman, Mom."  (Okay, I'm sure I have a city-raised friend, but I'll admit their childhood experiences are beyond my imaginative capabilities.) The point is, I don't expect I'll ever get a proper shout out of appreciation from my kids, but that doesn't seem to stop my periodic agonizing that one day soon, they'll move out and find out they don't like cleaning chicken coops, and it isn't a requirement of the US Government.
Will they wonder what in the world I was thinking? Or, by raising them out here in the cornfields of rural Ohio, have I saddled them with the same love of pasture and crickets and frozen water buckets and wood smoke and open windows that wove into my fiber as I grew at Puckihuddle?
I suppose, with any luck, I'll find out.