Who you gonna call?

The phone rang in the middle of the night and jolted us awake.

Okay, it wasn’t really the middle of the night — but it was late, considering that my husband and I have recently decided that, unlike Cinderella’s carriage, which returns to its original pumpkin state at midnight, we turn into pumpkins much earlier, somewhere between 8:30 and 9.

Out of habit, because bedtime was always such a ritual when the kids were little: bath, jammies, teeth, story, my husband and I have developed our own routine, and even our own vernacular concerning the end of the day. 

One of us will say, “I’m turning into a pumpkin.”

The other will say, “I’m definitely powering down.”

Or one will say, “It’s time to jammify.” 

My husband teases me by wearing plaid pajama pants and pairs them with his standard button-down shirt he often wears to work — always plaid — until I shield my eyes as if I’m staring into the sun and say, “I can’t look! That is entirely too much plaid!”

But I digress. The phone rang after we had turned into plaid pumpkins, and confusion ensued in the dark. Where was the phone? Was it my phone or his phone? Was it late at night, or early in the morning?

My husband found his phone and saw that it was our son, the one who lives in Los Angeles. It was 11 p.m. by us, so it was only 9 p.m. for him.

“Hello?” my husband said. I lean in closer, listening in, my heart pounding in my chest, bracing myself for bad news. Calls in the middle of the night are rarely good news.

Our son was at the side of the road with a flat tire. He had located the jack and the spare tire in the trunk, but that’s when he picked up the phone to dial Dad.

My husband, asleep only seconds before, was now alert and bright-eyed. These are the moments he lives for. My husband loves to fix and tinker and build and demolish things. The only thing he loves more? When the kids ask him advice about fixing, tinkering, building, and demolishing. 

Still groggy, I half-listen as he describes what to do with the jack, where to place it underneath the car, how to remove the lug nuts, and how to replace it with the spare tire.

If my son had called me with this problem, I wouldn’t have had any answers for him. But he knew that already. That’s why he called his Dad.

I grew up in the days when homes had one phone line. You called the house and it was anybody’s guess who would answer. But now, our adult children can seek us out with the precision of a heat-seeking bat signal. 

The patterns emerge, who our kids decide to call. Car trouble? That’s an easy one. But what if they need money? In that case, they usually call me. Problems at work? Call Dad. Baking cookies and need to know what to substitute when you’re out of baking powder? I’ll take that one. Basic life maintenance questions, like where to find a dentist or how to apply for a passport go to me, as well.

On occasion, they call and ask for both of us to get on the phone. Those are reserved for big conversations, like deciding to change a college major or figuring out the logistics of moving halfway across the country.

These phone calls are a window into how our kids see us: Dad’s the fixer and tech support. Mom’s the empathizer and caretaker. I will remind them to gargle with salt water for a sore throat. Dad will tell them how to clear a slow bathtub drain. I will listen to their work woes and be white-hot mad at the boss on their behalf. 

We will always answer the calls, especially the ones in the middle of the night. Because you know what else the kids have today that we didn’t have growing up? YouTube. Siri. Any question they can think of in the entire world can be answered by the magic phones in their pockets. But instead, they call ol’ Mom and Dad, even though we’ve likely already “powered down” for the night, probably wearing an alarming amount of mismatched plaid. That’s a pretty nice feeling.

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