It’s been a month and ten years since I’ve set eyes on my son.
I’m not counting that single, solitary post on social media – a wobbly picture of him and some friends in the purple light of an all-ages night spot, which, after a few seconds of video vibing, freezes on the top-most section of his unruly curls.
Or at least I assume they are his. I can’t be entirely sure.
But, I had to admit, the sighting set my mind at ease.
Not only had I missed sneaking all the delicious desserts and snacks I stopped buying *FOR THE KIDS* once they left, but I missed his face and his voice and his quiet, midnight raids of the refrigerator.
The people wearing branded college gear at the orientation advised us to make a plan. Agree upon how often we would communicate … and what form it would take. Would it be a weekly phone call? Semi-weekly? A few text messages strategically sent during schedule breaks when we are sure our students aren’t sleeping, or eating, or finally able to get a shower in the tiny bathroom they share with as many as 10 other students.
I had hoped for a once-a-week call at a time of his choosing. Pictured sitting around the phone broadcasting to the kitchen as he recounts all his new experiences with boundless enthusiasm, even if I knew the kid we sent off to school would rather just say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ and shrug into the microphone.
He isn’t his sister, who will take whatever question I ask and weave it into a story she’s more willing to tell me. She seems to know innately that HOW she says things to her parents often matters more than what she tells us.
Not that I blame him.
Of course, I would settle for one-line replies to texts. And he would oblige four to six follow-up thought bubbles before he would just leave it on read.
Though we want to know they are happy and thriving, making friends and feeling their formerly small worlds slowly crack open into a panoply of prismatic color, asking for that reassurance directly can be … well … infuriating.
No one is perfect.
I wonder how I forget such things when I STILL experience this feeling of exasperation at the prospect of answering well-meant, ice-breaking questions like: “How was your day?” or “Did you win your 5K race?”
It can also feel like the pain of a thousand jabs if things aren’t going as expected.
Lately, I can understand the impulse to scream at the top of our lungs STOP ASKING ME HOW WAS MY DAY. That’s my business. Mine. I’m not even sharing a taste for you to chew on.”
If I can manage to stave off impulse long enough to take a deep breath, maybe I could gather wits and recall, in intricate detail, the story of how I really, really wanted nothing more than to buy a devil’s food sheetcake, the kind with the vanilla frosting loops in one straight line along the center, and eat the whole dang thing.
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