My son Will is a busy man. I imagine him happily ensconced in the warmth of a gigantic snow moving machine in Burlington, Vermont, music blasting when a small fluttery disturbance in his Carhart jeans alerts him to an incoming call. He slides his cell phone from his pocket, glances down expectantly, then frowns. Takes a slug of coffee. Calls from me - especially if it's the third or fourth call of the morning and it's only 6:45am - are not relished. I'm not a dazzling 20-something. I'm his Mom.
Chances are quite strong that they are, in fact, dismissed. A chirpy message from me might go something like this: Hi, Will, it's Mom. Again. So, ah, what's new? How are you? How's work? What are you doing for fun? (Giggle.) Are we supposed to get more snow? Well, that's about it. Call me when you get a chance! Okay, love you lots!
When he does return a call, usually after I take a stab at inducing a sticky blanket of guilt, he often cannot keep the beleaguered, annoyed and long-suffering tone from his voice.
Yeah, Ma, it's Will.
Hi! How are you? What's new? How's work?
Deep sigh.
Nothing has changed since our last conversation. Everything is the same. It's cold. There's snow. I get up, I go to work, I come home, I go to bed, then I do it again.
So, nothing is new? Not one thing?
Deep sigh.
If something were new, you'd be the first to know.
(I'll bet.)
Is there anything else?
I guess not, it's just I wish you would tell me one tiny snippet about your life is all.
I don't have any snippets. I don't have time for snippets.
Deep sigh.
You are 24 years old! You must have time for a snippet or two. Giggle.
Are we done talking about snippets, 'cause I gotta go.
Okay, bye, then.
Bye, love you.
Love you too.
When I learned how to text, I sent him a message: M txtng! His retort was swift: Don't.
Yesterday, I noticed his name on my Facebook page, in the bottom right corner under Chat. I pounced. I had been thinking about my sisters, and wondered if he had any strong feelings about his two sisters. He is 13 years younger than one, and 8 years younger than the other.
Do you feel you are close to your siblings? I typed. They weren't mean to you growing up, were they? (The way I was to mine.)
I smiled to myself, picturing the aggravated scowl on his scruffily bearded, handsome face. I could even hear the prolonged sigh.
Where is this coming from?
Just thinking about sisters - mine, yours, and writing about it. They adored you, didn't they?
I don't wanna be in it. And yes, they adored me. Gotta go. Love you.
Wait! I typed hastily.
A small automatic message appeared in the message box: Will is offline.
Chances are quite strong that they are, in fact, dismissed. A chirpy message from me might go something like this: Hi, Will, it's Mom. Again. So, ah, what's new? How are you? How's work? What are you doing for fun? (Giggle.) Are we supposed to get more snow? Well, that's about it. Call me when you get a chance! Okay, love you lots!
When he does return a call, usually after I take a stab at inducing a sticky blanket of guilt, he often cannot keep the beleaguered, annoyed and long-suffering tone from his voice.
Yeah, Ma, it's Will.
Hi! How are you? What's new? How's work?
Deep sigh.
Nothing has changed since our last conversation. Everything is the same. It's cold. There's snow. I get up, I go to work, I come home, I go to bed, then I do it again.
So, nothing is new? Not one thing?
Deep sigh.
If something were new, you'd be the first to know.
(I'll bet.)
Is there anything else?
I guess not, it's just I wish you would tell me one tiny snippet about your life is all.
I don't have any snippets. I don't have time for snippets.
Deep sigh.
You are 24 years old! You must have time for a snippet or two. Giggle.
Are we done talking about snippets, 'cause I gotta go.
Okay, bye, then.
Bye, love you.
Love you too.
When I learned how to text, I sent him a message: M txtng! His retort was swift: Don't.
Yesterday, I noticed his name on my Facebook page, in the bottom right corner under Chat. I pounced. I had been thinking about my sisters, and wondered if he had any strong feelings about his two sisters. He is 13 years younger than one, and 8 years younger than the other.
Do you feel you are close to your siblings? I typed. They weren't mean to you growing up, were they? (The way I was to mine.)
I smiled to myself, picturing the aggravated scowl on his scruffily bearded, handsome face. I could even hear the prolonged sigh.
Where is this coming from?
Just thinking about sisters - mine, yours, and writing about it. They adored you, didn't they?
I don't wanna be in it. And yes, they adored me. Gotta go. Love you.
Wait! I typed hastily.
A small automatic message appeared in the message box: Will is offline.
No comments:
Post a Comment