Don’t Forget to Call Your Mother
Augusta Today columnist Kris Fisher Writes about how his own experiences as a father make him wish he had made more time for his mother.
Call your mom.
Words I’ve heard my whole life. I can’t tell you when or where I heard it first. It’s just a phrase that has been engraved into my hippocampus since I knew how to work a phone. And as most things go, I didn’t understand or appreciate the meaning of those calls until later in life.
I used to think that moms, or parents in general for that matter, just want to know what’s going on with us because they were being overbearing or over-protective. That was certainly the case when I moved out on my own for the first time - not just on my own, but out of state and ready to face the world with my vast 21 years of knowledge.
Pretty early in my newfound Florida adventure, I received a call from my mom. I remember eventually asking - several minutes into the call – what exactly she wanted. I had about a hundred things I’d rather be doing than talking to a parent. She responded that she just wanted to see how I was doing”
“I’m fine,” I responded with a sigh. “It’s only been a week!”
I got off the call as quickly as I could.
It took me all these years to realize just how much that pointless phone call meant to her.
Now, I am my mom. With all three of my kids out of the house, I crave those pointless conversations. They used to happen in the kitchen or on the back deck, unplanned and with no real direction. It became my favorite part of being a parent. Those random conversations are far fewer and farther between once they move out and move on. It’s almost like a break up.
Of course, I can call my kids anytime and schedule a time to hang out. I do it as often as I can. It will never, however, replace those spur-of-the-moment chats around the house. It’s still cherished time, but now, it’s more intentional. It also happens on their schedule, which gets busier and busier as time goes on.
I joked recently with my daughter about her text response time, which is about 12 hours if I’m lucky. My oldest son? Getting a response is always a roll of the dice. The youngest is still a teenager and I’ve recently had to remind myself that teenagers, by rule, just don’t want to talk to their parents. I didn’t when I was a teenager.
Just a couple of years ago, he was a kid and couldn’t get enough attention, following me so much that I was begging for a moment of peace.
Oh, how the tables have turned.
Now I’m thankful for all the time I get. I try to make my calls worth their time but usually, I’ve got nothing. I just want to hear their voice. Again, I am my mom.
The irony of this is that I am writing this on what would have been my mom’s 71st birthday. She’s no longer around to irritate me with the phone calls that I would dread. I wish she were. I wish I could have seen past my own busy life and stubbornness to notice just how much those calls meant. Because to me, now, they’re everything.
Call your mom.
