Go. ... Be a kid ...

I made him leave the house.

It wasn't easy.

He had been happy where he was these past three days: planted in the living room, on his own imaginary island, ensconced in a chair and surrounded by all manner of creature comforts.

He'd feathered his nest with pillows, blanket, snacks ... even the cordless phone all within arm's reach.

If it were any other week at any other time in the history of the world, one might expect to find a thermometer bobbing around in his mouth, barely under his tongue, as he pitched soggy, wadded up tissues into a paper bag rolled at the top with a neat little cuff.

He might have asked me for soup, but he can make his own ramen.

Of course, he's not sick. His temperature is normal, and the skies are clear. It's vacation week, and his friends are gathered – nearly everyone he knows is already here – even though I can't see or hear them. 

The meeting space is cyber. I can only see his friends' animated doppelgangers running across our television screen. I can only hear my son shouting out warnings.

“Look behind you. Look behind you!”

I just can't bring myself to bring him anywhere. I can organize his day, but I can't make him follow that list without standing over him, tapping my foot.

“Go anywhere,” I said, assuming familiarity and reason would lead him one block to the park, or two blocks to the library, or more immediately somewhere in our narrow back yard, which opens up into the wilds of the neighboring farmland.

I'm not sure what I thought he'd do. Meet a friend? Climb a suburban jungle gym? Help an elderly lady cross a street? Borrow a book from the library? Discover a secret portal into a parallel (but inverted) universe and save all of humanity? 

Almost any reality other than the virtual kind - which involved the taking up of armchairs and the wearing of headphones to play war games on the large screen in the living room, where he'd meet other kids who were attached to their own pixilated worlds by micro-phoned headsets while their parents were working - was fine by me.

Just go outside. Stretch your legs. Move your body. Get it to make wide sweeping gestures instead of barely perceivable motions. Eye twitches don't count. Let the sun touch your skin. Let the wind rush at your face. Find-something-else-to-do-I-don't-care-what.”

I was desperate.

He didn't put up much of a protest.

I didn't tell him to make himself useful. It's not like I asked him to go shopping with me, or out for a run. I didn't ask him to pave the driveway or rake the leaves out from under the juniper. I didn't ask him to empty the dishwasher or mow the lawn. 

I asked him to be a kid … from my generation.

He put on a bike helmet, grabbed his scooter and scooted, but not without some huffing and puffing and a few heavy foot-fall stamping. He will go, but he'll be back in no time.