How parents deal with their sons, and vice-versa

When another two feet of snow were forecast at the start of this week for the Boston area, we emailed older son, who lives there, to make sure he was OK and to let him know we were aware of the storm.

Like most adult children, our sons -- one in Boston and the other in Seattle -- are used to spates of overparenting. We can't help it, and they know it. But that doesn't mean they have to like it.

So when we ask, "Are you really doing OK?" we have come to expect a made-up reply that only heightens our concern. For example, if we ask about either son's health, we are likely to hear, "I'm OK now, and the doctor says I should be able to walk again in a couple of weeks."

Of course, both sons have had real health issues from time to time, and sometimes we don't hear about them until much time has passed. And there have been occasions when we've been ill -- hospitalized, even -- when we opted not to tell our sons. Why worry them when it would be unreasonable to expect them to drop everything and head for Missouri?

We, the parents, smugly thought we were doing what was best.

Wrong.

Again.

"How come," they ask, "you always want to know how we're doing and then don't tell us you've been in the hospital?"

Fair enough. Now we call when we sneeze twice in a row. Our sons? They tell of details of their maladies when we ask questions. Lots and lots of questions.

Parents, in our book, are supposed to be concerned about their offspring. And that gives us a right to know every little detail.

Sons, on the other hand, think hovering parents are in no way a trade-off for not being told about serious illnesses.

Well, we both keep trying.

To alleviate the suffering on all counts, our sons inject a considerable amount of humor in their communications with us.

"Don't worry about my missing foot," one of them might say. "The bear that ate it died."

Or this: "Pay no attention to my cough. The doctor says the pneumonia has pretty much cleared up."

And you wonder where I get my sense of humor.

Anyway, back to Boston son's impending doom (according to national news coverage) from another snowstorm. Older son has reminded us on more than one occasion that Boston (a) is in New England and (b) it snows a lot in New England. He finds it somewhat laughable that snowstorms become big news every time they affect news anchors in New York.

So, keeping all of this in mind, I thought you might appreciate older son's reply to our email last Sunday when we heard more deep snow was on its way:

"I'm fine, other than wondering what it takes to qualify as a 'shut-in'.

"Where are my caring neighbors? I'm nearly out of prosciutto. Has anyone stopped to ask about my supply of Italian charcuterie? NO! When they run out of 100-percent pure maple syrup they can just suffer. I'm not sharing.

"Overall, the ongoing snow just exposes the incompetence of my city and state governments' only planning on a year-to-year basis, rather than the collective knowledge that there are going to be good years and bad years.

"Snow removal has been abysmal resulting in traffic gridlock -- and the T has been asking for more money for decades, falling on deaf ears. The equipment is over 50 years old, half again beyond the normal 'use' date.

"Some very clever administration person, I can't remember her name, has been making a very strident point that people have been stuck on the Very Same Exact Train Car and Engine that they were stuck on in the Blizzard of '78 (by which all Massachusetts weather events are gauged).

"In the past, I could always rely on the T to run -- albeit slow, and cram-packed beyond belief, but the 39 bus would run and everyone on board understood it was just going to be uncomfortable riding at overcapacity with each person wearing three extra layers to deal with the elements. Now it's just hit or miss with very poor communication.

"Oh, well, I have power and heat, and if it comes to it I can trudge the whole 300 feet up the street to the Harvest Co-op where I can purchase just about anything I could want. The horror!

"Onward."

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.