Call Me

From the beginning, communicating with my daughter was a piece of cake. She shared her thoughts with me. She came to me for advice. She called me when she had good news to report or bad break-ups to get through. Sometimes she confided more than I wanted to know but my discomfort was a small price to pay. It felt good to be in the loop, to be a part of her life.

I only wish I had the opportunity to experience that connection with my son.

I never thought I'd enjoy having a boy as much as I did. A frightening combination of daring and energy, he kept me on my toes and taught me things I never knew I wanted to know. We spent hours building massive Lego starships. We constructed medieval villages out of hundreds of plastic pieces and filled them with tiny warriors on horses. We read books about dinosaurs, airplane engines and baseball. We laughed at Mad-Libs and silly songs he made up on the spot. He was a lot of fun but there wasn't a whole lot of talking going on.

Now that he's moved out, I realize how much easier it is to make the break with a daughter. Girls pick up the phone. They make lunch dates. They ask you to go shopping. They don't swing by, grab something still lurking in their childhood closet and race back out to an engine still running in the driveway. They don't disappear for a week without some kind of contact. And they don't make a habit of ignoring voicemails for days at a time.

I know I shouldn't get worked up about my twenty-two year-old son's reluctance to hang out with his family. I know I shouldn't take it personally. Everyone tells me to relax. He's a guy. But maybe his lack of social skills (not to mention common courtesy) has nothing to do with being a guy. Maybe he just has a lot of growing up to do.