(Relax kids – nobody’s dying – yet. I’m just writing. No hinting implied.)
Why don’t my kids ever call – just to chat? I truly don’t understand it. It’s not like they have jobs, kids, activities, responsibilities, or lives of their own, right?
I wish I could see the look on my kids’ faces when they click on this blog and read the title – if they even do. Read it, that is. I know exactly what they’ll think: Oh no. We’re in trouble. No subtle hinting here. Mom’s guilt-tripping us via her blog.
Honestly, two out of the three of you might deserve a light sprinkle of guilt. The youngest son calls nearly once a week – but he’s still single, so he has the advantage of not going to kids’ activities and fewer humans yelling, “Mom! Dad! Look at this!” in the background.
And yes, yes, I can already hear the chorus: “Ya know Mom – the phone works both ways.”
It does. Absolutely. But there is something sweeter – something warmer – about knowing the call was their idea. When your child instigates the conversation, it hits differently. It lands right in the soft spot of a mother’s heart.
A couple of years ago, my oldest son called out of the blue. I remember answering with, “Is everything OK?” because seriously, these calls are rare enough that I assume someone’s in the hospital. But he said, “Everything’s fine. I just haven’t talked to you for a while.”
After the shock wore off, I grinned through the entire conversation. At first I wondered what on earth we’d talk about, but the words flowed as easily as water in a river. When we hung up, I felt joy. I felt thought of. I felt – dare I say it – needed. Maybe he called out of guilt, but I like to believe part of him just wanted to hear his mother’s voice.
Here’s the thing about mothers: we know our kids so well that we can hear everything in that very first HELLO. Panic. Worry. Exhaustion. Depression. Or the rarest of all – the casual, breezy “just calling to chat” tone. One word, and I know whether I need to talk them in off a ledge, patch a wound, or simply enjoy the gift of their voice. It’s a strange superpower, but it’s ours to behold.
Of course, that superpower comes with a downside: sometimes we react too quickly. A couple nights ago, my youngest called to tell me about a new job opportunity. He’d be commuting for a while and was thinking about getting a little beater car with good gas mileage. Instead of just listening, I jumped straight into Mom Mode and blurted, “Hold on – the last time you traded in a vehicle, you were sick with buyer’s remorse. And a beater will require you to spend money to keep it going.”
And then I heard it – that disappointed sigh. “Boy, I’m really glad I told you about my plan.”
Oof. That one hit me right in the heart.
I felt terrible. My reaction came from a place of wanting to protect him from feeling that same regret again. I was trying to save him from another heartache, but it came out wrong. It made him feel like he’d be damned if he ever told me an idea again. I still need to apologize – and I will, unless he reads this first and beats me to it.
Every Sunday night I tell myself – this week I’ll call one of the kids. I’ll pick a night and decide which one will be the lucky recipient of my rambling. But then I don’t. And so, my good intentions fail just as often as theirs do.
Now here comes the part that might tug at their hearts – but not because I want them to feel bad. Truly. I’d give anything to be able to pick up the phone and call my own mother. To hear her talk about the birds at her feeder, or how her flowering crab apple tree was loaded with buds and is going to be gorgeous this Spring. She’d tell me about a new recipe her niece gave her but didn’t want to make “for just one person,” and then she’d ask if she made it, would I stop over and eat it with her.
And now here I am, tears in my eyes, hearing her voice in my head. I’d give anything to hear it in my ears.
Mothers don’t stop being mothers when the kids leave the nest. We don’t stop thinking about you, worrying about you, cheering for you, praying for you. For nearly eighteen years, we occupied the same space – you were our entire world. We were mama bears, protectors, worriers, watchers. And yes – sometimes it would be nice to know you think of us too. Not in a burdensome way. Not in a “drop everything and panic” way. Just a flicker of thought kind of way. A moment of I should call my mom… just because way.
Not out of guilt. Not out of obligation. But maybe – because the tiny part of you remembers that I washed your baseball uniforms three times a week, sometimes at 10 o’clock at night because you suddenly remembered you had a game the next day. And, because I kept you alive on Schwan’s chicken patties and Western dressing – the only things standing between you and full-blown hangry chaos when your tummy was grumbling loud enough to rattle the windows.
And maybe – your sister is still holding a grudge because I lost her blankie. Honey, I swear that is still a complete mystery. You’re such a Dateline fan, maybe you could get Keith Morrison to come investigate: The Case of the Missing Blankie.
I don’t want to add weight to your already busy lives. I don’t want you worrying about me. I don’t want you to feel guilty. But if this gently nudges you to pick up the phone and say, “Heh Mom, just thought I’d call to say hi,” – I’ll take it.
Because the sound of your voices light up the quiet corners of my heart.
A toast: Here’s to the years we survived together – the grass stains, the chicken patties, the missing blankey, and every “hello” that told me everything I needed to know in a single breath. Here’s to you calling me before you scroll through Recents, don’t see my name, assume I’ve died, and realize you were too busy to notice the obituary or attend the funeral – although Keith Morrison would absolutely call that suspicious.
Here’s to you finding humor in your mother’s latest blog post – and if it suddenly inspires you to call me, knock yourself out. You’ll find a very receptive receiver on the other end.
To Jill, Joey and Mark, the three humans who made me a mother, handed me a lifetime pass to worry and wonder, and then blessed me with grandchildren who made the whole ride even sweeter. You gave me the badge of Mom and the promotion to Grandma… not bad for someone you forget to call.
This Sunday is Mother’s Day. If you’re fortunate enough to still have your mother in your life, call her. The sound of your voice will mean more than any bouquet you could send.
Cheers and Happy Mother’s Day to mothers everywhere!
