Let me say, first off, I apologize to all my friends who
have daughters. Yes, I was smug. I did say raising boys was easier than raising
girls. I did call all boys wysiwygs (what you see is what you get), devoid of
female teenage manipulations and periodic whirlwinds of inexplicable emotions.
Instead, I crowed, boys are solid, steady, honest and forthcoming. They don’t worry about what their friends are
wearing, they don’t spend hours fixing their hair. They don’t run up the phone
bill. They talk to their mother.
The implication I missed was this: they don’t run up the
phone bill BECAUSE THEY DON’T USE THE PHONE.
Yep, when they left home (and they continue to do this in
varying stages: home to college, college to grad school, apartment to
girlfriend’s condo, North Carolina to California, California to Japan…) they
somehow became almost completely incapable of using their phones.
Oh, yes, their phones are technological marvels and when
held in their hands, my sons have the options of calling, texting, emailing,
Facebooking or Skyping AT NO COST TO THEM WHATSOEVER.
When I left home for the faraway burg of Chapel Hill, I
loved my new college life: the hustle and bustle of thousands of students, the
classes, the independence, all of it! But a part of me inside missed my
parents. When the dorm phone rang for me – I was so happy to talk to my
parents. In fact, so happy that during freshman year, I would invariably tear
up with emotion and, well…, cry a bit. This wasn't to say that I was sad, not
at all, just nostalgic and filled with love and a touch of longing for my
parents. This, in fact, this broke my Dad’s heart. And he finally said to me
“Boots, it’s not so bad. You could have cancer or be in a concentration camp.” He nailed it. The tears stopped but not the
calls to my parents.
In fact, as the years progressed and I married, had kids,
and paid my own phone bills, those calls became daily. We talked every morning
– with my mom and dad each on an extension – they caught me up on Seaboard
doings, I told them about the boys or asked for advice. Those calls were gifts
– and each one buoyed me up to meet the day that would then rush in with the
breathless force of a tidal wave.
By contrast, when my older son left for college, I pretty
much didn't hear from him for SIX weeks, despite the number of times I checked my phone for messages. I got a line of email here or there
but not much else. And when the younger son left for college he embarked on a
new relationship at the same time so, shall we say, his thoughts were
elsewhere. Not with home and hearth.
A friend of mine told me this is how we raised them, to see
the back of their heads and I know in my heart that is true. The apron strings
are cut. But STILL I hold out hope that my sons will use those handheld wonders
and think of their mother.
And so it was that my older son and his fiancé’ headed to
California a couple of weeks ago; Lilly had a conference in San Francisco which
is quite close to my younger son at Berkeley. (Which let me pause here briefly,
and say thank God for Lilly. If I can’t get Nat to respond to a text, I add her
to the thread and magically he responds.) Anyway, as I was saying, I envisioned
both my boys and Lilly together, romping in sunny California. Before I dropped
the couple at the airport, I asked for photos. (Those phones have built in
cameras, don’tyaknow?)
Then I waited. And waited.
At last, a picture came. My phone chirped happily at midnight EST. I excitedly opened up my message and got this:
Those are Nat’s feet because I recognize the orange NERD
socks. And I THINK that is Zack’s arm because of the freckles. But how did they
get in that position? Later, I showed the picture to one of my girlfriends who said
that with the apparently detached arm and legs, I should probably call CSI San Francisco.
So, to the mothers of daughters out there: enjoy the texts,
enjoy the calls, enjoy the Facebook posts.
Simply enjoy.
To the mothers of sons: keep the faith. They do love you.
Enjoy simply.
