Yesterday I phoned home for the first time since I arrived in Ireland a week ago. In this New Age of satellite phone technology and Skype, I am antediluvian. I do email Keith and send the occasional Facebook message to the boys but I just can't wrap my mind around the idea of casually phoning (or ye gods, texting) between Europe and the U.S. For me, it remains one of those Only In Cases of Emergency things. But, in an effort to be an up-to-date cool kind of person, I phoned home.
I got Hugh.
"HI YA!" I say, in my excited, can-you-believe-it's-me-and-how-amazing-is-this voice. "Hi," Hugh says flatly. "Honey, it's me. Mom. Calling from Ireland," I enthuse. "Yeah," replies Hugh. The subtext is clear: "So what?"
When Hugh was little, all I had to do was enter a room and I was a star. He's the first person I've ever known whose eyes really, truly light up. And once upon a time, they lit for me. He'd smile this huge, infectious grin and those eyes would shine and he'd roll, crawl, toddle, run over and leap into my arms.
They demand so much when they're little. They want you and want you and want you. And it's exhausting and inconvenient and annoying and suffocating and relentless, oh god, it's relentless.
Then they stop. And, like childbirth, nothing and no one can prepare you for the pain.
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