Story Time

  

There’s a lot of preparation that goes into visiting my mom. I’m always equipped with the necessities—groceries, household goods, questions about magazine subscriptions and requests for donations—as well as fun stuff, which is comprised of at least two components:  flowers because she loves them and stories about her grandkids because I think she loves them (the kids of course but the stories too). 

On my weekly drive to her apartment, I generally review a running list of what’s occurred with the kids since the last time I saw her so that I can relay the update in as entertaining a manner as possible.  The pattern is the same:  we kiss hello, she assesses the beauty of the flowers in my arms—always remarking most favorably to sunflowers—I sit down at her kitchen table, she asks what’s new, and off I go.  If my plan is to stay for a short time, I’ll give a brief overview; if I have the afternoon free, I can cram in a lot of detail.  My mom is a most captive audience, glued to my words as if I’m narrating one of the books she can’t put down, seemingly absorbed in the trials and tribulations of everybody’s lives. 

A couple weeks ago after a particularly spirited run-down of events, I had to interrupt story-time for a drink of water because I was so parched.  Prepared to continue where I left off, I stopped in my tracks after my mom, who generally doesn’t comment unless I press her to respond, took the pause as an opportunity to say, without prompting of any kind, “You sure have a lot of issues with your kids.” 

On those rare occasions when my mom does make a statement, her words hit me like a ton of bricks.  My first reaction was “Issues?”  I thought I was sharing amusing anecdotes; my second reaction was to strike back and say, “You think MY kids have a lot of issues?  How about YOUR kids?” but then I realized I’d be talking about myself too, so I abided by my third reaction, which was to say nothing.  That said, I gave a lot of thought to her statement for days to come, and it is that one line which prompted today’s blog post.

Upon the 100^th recall of that sentence, I realized that, personalities aside—and differing opinions of what constitutes an “issue”—my mom’s experience of being a parent of adult kids is entirely different from my own experience of being a parent of adult kids.  When I was in my 20s, a 5- or 10-minute phone chat between my mom and me once a week was the norm.  Only major developments like pregnancy, divorce, a tragedy or disheartening election results caused more frequent dialogue and even those were limited, especially once I moved to Cherry Hill and landline calls to Philadelphia were “long-distance,” with each minute racking up what could become a hefty bill.  I was, in essence, on my own the very second I left the cocoon of my childhood home, feeling my way through life with very little parental assistance.  My mom hadn’t been privy to my “issues” for many years, as the conduits for free-flowing conversation weren’t in place.  Technology as we know it hadn’t arrived.

Today’s advances—text messages, email, Facebook, Skype and more—may foster closer relationships between the generations as we can interact to our hearts’ content, but is all this communication good for our kids?  Does it help or hinder the ultimate goal of fostering responsible, independent adults?