When They Call Each Other

There’s a part of parenting no one really prepares you for. It’s not the college drop-off, or the goodbye, or even the quiet house. It’s the not knowing.

TJ is knee deep into his second semester in college, and staying in touch is inconsistent at best. I’ve tried to keep my expectations low—a quick “I’m alive” text, maybe a phone call here and there. I don’t want to be the mom who hovers or nags, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still want to know everything. His highs and lows. Who his friends are. What’s stressing him out. If he’s eating well. If he’s sleeping at all.

I’ve had to get creative. I check his Strava to see when he runs and try to understand all the comments. I watch for the occasional Instagram reel he sends. Little glimpses into a life I’m no longer part of in the same way. And that’s been the hardest part—not being in the rhythm of his everyday life.

But here’s the part I didn’t expect.

What has brought me the most joy in this season isn’t when TJ calls me. It’s when he calls his brother.

Sometimes it happens when I’m in the car with Grant driving home from school. The phone rings, and it’s TJ. And I get to listen—not as the main character in the conversation, but as a quiet observer. A fly on the wall. Over time, I’ve learned to stay there, to not jump in or redirect, but to just listen.

Most of the time, it’s nonsense. Banter. Jokes. Running talk. Social media memes, things that a 55 year old just does not understand. But its the kind of back-and-forth that only brothers understand. And every once in a while, there’s something more. TJ asking Grant how his race went. Checking in on his year at a new school. Offering a quick piece of advice. And Grant, in his own way, receiving it—asking questions, letting his guard down just enough.

It’s subtle. Easy to miss if I'm not paying attention. But I see it. And it stops me every time.

Because calling your mom is expected. Calling your brother is a choice.

There’s something unfiltered about it. Something real. They aren’t performing or protecting. They’re just themselves. And in that space, I get to see who they are becoming—not just as individuals, but as brothers.

For a long time, I thought my role was to stay closely connected to them forever—to be the one they came to for everything. But I’m starting to see it differently. Maybe parenting success isn’t measured by how often they call me. Maybe it’s that they call each other.

I’m still figuring out what it looks like to be the mom of a college student. I’m still learning when to reach out and when to hold back, still adjusting to the space. But in the middle of all that, I get these glimpses—small, ordinary phone calls between brothers—and they remind me that even though things are changing, the most important things are holding steady.

Brothers aren’t just family; they’re a lifelong support system. And somehow, in the letting go, I get to watch that take shape.

Wet Shoes

A pile of wet, stinky, sometimes still snow covered shoes and boots is a staple of any home in the snow belt. It is the result of putting on boots to go shovel, shoes to go and run errands, and something else to run to the mailbox. For some inexplicable reason, each of these tasks seems to require a different set of footwear which then accumulates by the front door.  

Last week we anticipated the biggest snowstorm in two decades. By some atmospheric miracle, the storm almost completely missed us and dumped over a foot of snow in Charlotte and inches as far south as Myrtle Beach.  However, we still got enough to cover the roads, shutdown everything, and add to our collective Cabin Fever.  

Harking back to our New York days, we bundled up to take Lucie for a walk and assess the two inches we received for snowman making and sledding opportunities. Snow is pretty for a few minutes and then it's just a frigid nuisance. Nonetheless, we stayed out in it for an hour, swept and shoveled some out of the driveway, and played with the neighbors kids until everyone got cold.  

Grant? Grant hardly poked his head out the door and was not interested in making fun in the snow. He did go out to learn how to drive in it, but a Subaru sticks to the road in all kinds of conditions. TJ got a dusting at college and wished he had more. Snow is more fun when you are young there are many peers looking for something to do.  Lisa made a snowman and got plugged with a couple of snowballs for her effort. Me? I recalled days back when snow was a part of everyday life.   

Back when the snow I shoveled from the driveway was three feet deep in the yard and made for great snow forts. When you drove in snow squalls and it looked like flying in hyperspace. When snow was not a once a year "treat". When a pile of wet shoes was a constant reminder of winter.  

Walk for Peace

The Walk for Peace is a long-distance pilgrimage by Buddhist monks from the Huong Dao Vipassana Bhavana Center in Fort Worth, TX, to Washington, D.C., promoting peace, compassion, and nonviolence. Monks carry signs and engage with the public through quiet presence and peaceful interaction rather than political messaging. 

It passed through Raleigh over the horrible winter weather weekend. 

The walk began in Fort Worth, Texas, following a route through the southeastern United States, passing through states including Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia. 

The path then went north through the Carolinas, on it's way to Virginia before concluding in Washington, D.C. - over 2,300 miles in all. The monks maintain a meditative walking pace and pause in various communities along the way to engage with local residents and share their message.  

Somehow, this walk has become "a thing" to draw in tens of thousands of people who would normally - probably - just dismiss it as an attention seeking gag.  People have been tracking the monks for over a week and everyone seemed to know that they were passing through Raleigh and wouldn't it be cool to see them?

But why? They are just a bunch of men in robes dedicated to their faith and their mission. People do extraordinary act to bring awareness to some thing all the time - yet they do not attract the public's attention like the monks do.

Maybe it's their mindfulness, or spirituality, or dedication what we all wish we could find in ourselves and therefore look up to in the acts of others.    

I think it is because we all need someone, or something, that rises above all of the awful, hateful rhetoric that is dividing the nation. We need a symbol of peace and the brotherhood of man that is so desperately lacking from any of our elected leaders. Some people are just tired of being so fucking angry all the time that they have stopped engaging with family and friends who have been incited to be angry all the time. Something to bring us back to an emotional and spiritual center. 

And so I found myself driving out towards Jordan Lake on Highway 64 to see if I could see them. At first I thought I missed them because I could not find them on their map tracker. Then I saw a car on the side of the road and a few people with signs. I didn't miss them. For the next 6 miles I drove to find a good spot to watch them. For the next 6 miles the sides of the road filled with parked cars. A dozen people? No, thousands. Thousands of people. All of these people looking for a little peace.

We saw the flashing blue lights of the police escort about a quarter mile away as they approached. And then a weird thing happened. 

The crowd went quiet. Church quiet. Then the sound of feet on the pavement. Then it was over. For a just moment it seemed like the world went on mute and slow motion at the same time before returning to normal.

Just like that they walked on. The monks in silence as a low murmur grew among us who they has passed. Just like that it was over and a majority of us returned to our cars and drove off.  

I can't tell you that I feel any of those things, more centered, or mindful, or spiritual. But I wouldn't discount it either. I am glad I was out there to witness them and I was happy to go out there and see so, so many others like me.