I've been using this blog to do a lot of complaining about the fact that my son hasn't been quick to pick up a phone and let me know how things are going now that he's moved out. Oh, sure, because we work at the same tennis club, I see him a couple of times a week but that's not exactly the place to have a heart to heart talk. If anything, it makes things more confusing. It's been more than strange to hear him call me by my first name (can't drop that businesslike demeanor that he's so proud of) and even stranger to have him walk out the door without getting the hug I've been so used to receiving any time we've said goodbye in the past. But all this sensitivity about his lack of communication got me thinking. How often do I call my own mother?
Now in her eighties, my mom has made a habit out of not interfering in her children's lives. She was actually happy for me when I got a chance to live overseas for a few years. She didn't whine about how lonely she was going to be or try to talk me out of leaving. She didn't pack up her things and find an apartment she could rent in Knightsbridge. No. She talked to me once a week and used the opportunity to visit a part of the world she had never seen before. Her whole adult life was lived as a mom and yet she was able to step back and let her daughters fly the nest without making us feel bad for doing so. She's there when we need her, doesn't offer advice unless we ask for it and tries not to guilt us into spending time with her. Sounds like something I should be shooting for.
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