My Turn: Texting brings instant reassurance, but can’t replace a good hug

Chirp! Like a hungry bird, my BlackBerry alerts me that a text message is waiting. “R u there Mom?” Our daughter, a freshman at Arizona State, is checking in. “Hi, Sweetie! Wazzup?” I reply. 

I don’t know when it happened, but at some point text messaging surpassed phone calls in my parenting arsenal. Like satellites circling the home planet, each of our children will orbit around and I’ll hear the little “chirp” from my phone. “What time is dinner?” my son will ask. “6:30. Parmesan chicken,” I’ll reply, chumming him like a shark to the table, where I hope to get in some face time with our eldest. 

I’ve had to learn a new language to go along with this new technology. 

With texting, I now type in a sort of hieroglyphic shorthand. Grammar and punctuation go by the wayside, since the message must be brief. My chubby fingers make this especially difficult on a small, almost indecipherable keyboard. But with the speed of a thought, I am able to reach out and connect, however briefly, just to say “R U OK?” and wait for the reassuring “I’m fine, Mom!” that chirps back at me.

I do miss conversations. There’s something about hearing the nervousness in my daughter’s voice before a big test; seeing the averted eyes when my son isn’t telling me the whole story; the ebb and flow of easy conversation, punctuated with the richness of laughter, hand gestures and rolling of eyes. With only 140 characters, I am stripped of animation and emotion. I can convey anger, disappointment or pride but the impact is lessened. Now I have “emoticons,” little faces used like periods at the end of sentences, to punctuate and define my moods. 

Maybe it’s because their phones are now almost surgically attached to our children that I am provided with a certain reassurance; I can instantly connect with my children, particularly when they need me most. And those are the times I dread; the midnight text that startles me from the edges of sleep and pumps a shot of adrenaline through my veins. Chirp! “I repel boys.” “What happened?” I text back, groggy, although I already know the answer. 

How do I tell my daughter, in 140 characters, that most college boys are not yet as self-assured as she is and that, with time, things will change? Chirp! “I lost my backpack with my wallet and driver’s license!” Chirp! “I think my car got stolen!” What I type back to our children, when my husband and I stabilize our heartbeats and regain control of our emotions, is the barest, essential language; just the facts, followed, if needed, by a brief phone call to lend support and direction. 

There will be time for in-depth conversations about disappointment and responsibility later when they are safely at home. 

And maybe that’s the point. With texting comes a certain immediate honesty; a cutting-to-the-chase of a communication and distance from the real emotion and insecurity of a face-to-face or phone conversation. Maybe there’s safety in testing the waters of parental response via texting that allows just enough pressure to be released for the real conversation to take place later.

For me, texting will never replace holding a crying child in my arms to comfort them as I explain life’s realities. It will never take the place of seeing the pure joy in your child’s eyes as they successfully pass another milestone in their lives. I don’t think it was ever meant to. 

But I am grateful for texting. Because every now and then, I’ll get a text that lets me know everything is all right. Chirp! “I luv u, Mom!” And sometimes, that’s all I need.