For those readers whose adult children sheltered at “home” during the early phases of the pandemic author Helen Schulman has written a touching piece in the Times Opinion section:
Last week, when it had been more than two days since I’d heard from my young adult children — Zoë, 26, and Isaac, 23 — I sent a text to our family chat: “Smoke signals, please.”
My request, which the kids have grown used to receiving, was met this time with a reassuring emoji of a puff of smoke from my son and a picture of Taco Bell’s new oversize Cheez-It tostada from my daughter.
I know full well that in 21st-century America, I am not the only parent tearing her hair out. I am anxious on the best of days, and well, these are simply not the best of days in our country or, sadly, the world.
Fortunately, my children understand that I need flares shot into the digital night that say, “We’re all OK.” Oftentimes our chats are about silly stuff — TV shows we’re watching or the family cats’ weird eating habits (a preference for our side salads). A quick text, it has been made perfectly clear to me, is considered less intrusive than a phone call, a painless way for my progeny to settle my racing heart, so they compassionately comply. We’re not under your roof anymore, but we’re fine. Really.
When my husband and I first encountered empty-nest syndrome, all I could do was mope around. But after a while, there was also a palpable excitement; we were able once again to live as we pleased, just as we did before we invited our children into our home as penniless strangers who could neither speak our language nor do anything for themselves. Now, as before, we could make full use of living in New York City — go out to jazz clubs or the ballet — walk around the apartment naked and come home late and plastered. For a while, both generations were busy enjoying unrestricted liberties and adventures, which we shared with each other during holidays and family vacations.
Covid, of course, changed all that. First Zoë came home from Washington, D.C., where she lived and had a job in politics. We assumed she’d stay for several weeks. But instead of returning to her own apartment and empty office, she ended up working remotely from our living room couch for 14 months while her dad wrote magazine articles on his blue easy chair, directly across the carpet. Isaac was forcibly returned by his college in the Midwest with 36 hours’ notice and finished his junior year online, behind the closed doors of his childhood bedroom, still filled with sports paraphernalia, trophies and World War II volumes.
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