Larry Rosen is a San Francisco writer, editor, host of the podcast “(Is it) Good for the Jews” and, suddenly, an empty nester. Reach him at [email protected].
One month ago, they told us: Don’t beg your child to write you letters, don’t send him photos of the family dog, don’t make him miss home. Freshman year is hard enough without a pair of clingy parents. True enough. My wife and I understood, having spent 18 years dodging the expansive rotors of San Francisco (and Jewish day school) helicopter parents.
And yet.
Until one month ago, my son and I enjoyed a healthy, humorous texting relationship. Our texts were heavy when they needed to be, and in fact were the best way for us to communicate during disagreements. They were sometimes nagging: “It’s 12:30 and you need to be at school in 7 hours. Why are you eating pretzels?” and sometimes informative: “Dad, have you seen the new trailer for ‘San Andreas’? Here it is.”
Most often they were lighthearted exchanges of inside jokes, a private language composed of photos of our dog or neighborhood eccentrics, Godzilla references, pictures of water parks. They were reminders. “Hey,” they said, “here’s something only you and I will appreciate,” or more simply, “This made me think of you.”
This is why, when the texting stopped last month, it became my secret crisis, secret because it’s so completely wrong to admit that your feelings are hurt because your freshman isn’t returning your texts, and what parent could be so selfish, but I’ve got to admit, a crisis just the same.
When we dropped him off we promised “radio silence,” but only for the weekend. The weekend ended, we returned to California, he stayed in Pennsylvania, and I realized: I have no idea how our text relationship is supposed to evolve. If I text at 1 a.m. Pennsylvania time and ask if he’s eating pretzels instead of sleeping, is that nagging? I had a million questions: “What are your classes like? How’s your roommate? What are you eating? How are you dealing with the humidity?” All felt like impositions.
I sat back, neck deep in text withdrawal, and waited for the right moment. Maybe I’d see Dancing Mike, our favorite neighborhood oddball, walking down the street in his Hawaiian shirt and shorts. I could snap a photo and send that. Finally I did, but I got no response. Then I sent a link to a trailer from a horror movie. Nothing. At best I’d get one word, or worse, just a letter.
“Mom said you were going to a meeting tomorrow at the radio station. Hope it works out.”
“K.”
Meanwhile, my wife has always had a different texting relationship with our son and was free to text daily the questions I was afraid to ask. I’d lurk in the background, feeding her lines and waiting eagerly for responses, feeling pangs of jealousy: Why isn’t he texting me?
All the while I felt awful, because, like they said, you’re not supposed to beg. We were doing fine in our empty nest, with our perpetually clean second bedroom and our wealth of easily located iPhone chargers. We were going out to dinner, meeting friends for impromptu drinks, speaking of spontaneous wine country weekends.
And yet, I felt naggingly like a discarded childhood toy, forced to check Snapchat, where my access was identical to the rest of his “followers,” for news of Quidditch tournaments and outdoor raves in the quad. Once Puff to his Jackie Paper, I was now a mere civilian.
Then, one morning, a phone call — not a scheduled family FaceTime, but an actual call. Something must be wrong.
“What’s up?” I asked, bracing myself.
“I’m standing outside a classroom, waiting to ambush this human, and I need to look normal.” I’d forgotten about Humans vs. Zombies. He was a zombie. He needed cover and thought, “Who can I call?” So he called me.
I don’t need my kid clinging to 3,000 miles of apron strings. We all know how bad that would be for everyone. I want him to dive in headfirst and wring every last drop out of his college experience, which doesn’t allow for much time to text your father. If I can just be the guy he calls when he’s a zombie trying to look normal while waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting human, that totally works for me.