Waaaaaay back in the 1990s, when calling long-distance (outside my area code! On a landline!) was cost-prohibitive, my mother devised a system: In my college dorm, I would wait until Sunday evening when the phone rates went down after 10 p.m. I would call her at the top of the hour, ring once, then hang up. That was our signal. She would know that I was ready for our weekly phone call, so she called me back, usually while puttering in the kitchen, while my Dad picked up the extension in the living room close to his favorite chair.
We’d talk quickly and efficiently. We were very aware of the time and the money that phone call was costing, so we didn’t waste a second. Many times, I’d have a list in front of me, a loose outline of a script, to make sure I didn’t forget anything.
I don’t think I talked to them more than once a week while I was away. But the Sunday night chats were something of a regular thing.
The Sunday chat tradition has been passed along to the next generation, as we often call or get called by our adult kids on that day. Our calls don’t have the terse, scripted quality I remember from my younger days, though. None of us give a second thought as to what time the call is made, or whether it’s local or long-distance.
I’m still not sure how much is too much or too little in terms of contacting my children. I’m working it out as I go, searching for the middle ground of showing that I’m interested in their lives without wanting to hover or intrude.
I’m old-fashioned, so I enjoy sending them snail mail from time to time: they don’t read cursive much, so I take great pains to use my best handwriting, but chuckle at the thought of my Gen. Z kids slowly decoding my script. Two of my children actually wrote me back once, and I cherish those letters dearly.
I’m finding that most of the time, I don’t have much to tell them, but I still want to let them know I’m thinking about them. I’ll tuck a little bit of cash inside a silly notecard, or maybe a gift card to their favorite store or restaurant. Sometimes I send recipes, the ones I know they loved as kids and might want to make for themselves now. In return, they’ve begun sharing sending me — via text or email — tidbits from their days: recently, they sent me an interesting reading on Buddhism from a class assigned by a fascinating professor; a photo of a cute vintage top found at a thrift store; and a selfie with a friendly dog that greets customers at a barbershop.
Not everything is better with cell phones, but I do love that the ubiquitous pocket phones afford us the ability to text small, bite-sized “digital kisses” throughout the week. If I don’t have “phone call-worthy” thoughts, I can at least send a photo of an unusual flower I passed on my walk, or an unfortunate misspelling in the produce section of the grocery store. On days that are challenging, I’ll send them a GIF of Dory, the perennially positive but seriously lacking in short-term memory blue angelfish from the movie, Finding Nemo. “Just keep swimming!” sings Dory, encouraging us not to give up, even though she can’t remember what it is we might want to give up on.
It’s been quiet the past few days, which reminds me of the old adage, “No news is good news.” Perhaps I’ll send a little text, a photo of the dog, sleeping in the sunshine on his favorite rug. They’ll give it a thumbs up or a heart, and the exchange is complete: I’m thinking of you. I’m proud of you. I’m here.
