Call Me Snicklefritz!

I talked to my son today on the phone. We haven’t talked in a couple of weeks because we’ve both just been very busy. Afterwards he sent me an email with some dates he and his wife would be available for a visit. They didn’t make it down for Christmas and all their presents are in a pile in my living room, no tree left to explain their presence. Life happens. And he’s been knee deep in going to school to be a paramedic, volunteering as an EMT and Firefighter, remodeling his house, and finding time to be with his equally busy wife who is a nurse at the Mayo Clinic. But today, he called.

People often ask me what Joe calls me – Pat, Birthmother, Mom, or even Aunt? It seems to hold so much importance to people, I see them watching me closely, waiting for the answer as if it will somehow serve to answer some ancient sought-after mystery of relationships. I think their nervous anticipation is funny. They completely miss the point. My answer is simple: “I don’t care if he calls me Snicklefritz, as long as he picks up the phone and calls me!”

As someone who spent 12 years not knowing if she would ever hear her son’s beautiful voice again, I can tell you that the name he calls me or the words he says are completely out shined by the simple fact that I am hearing that beautiful voice again. I’ve been able to pick up the phone and hear his voice any time I want to now for over 14 years – AND IT NEVER GETS OLD. It’s still a little miracle each time he simply says hello.

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