Today is my son's birthday. Although I'd sent a card, I missed talking to him on this special day. He lives half a continent away, a computer-whiz in northern California, and I don't see him as often as I'd like.

Carefully timing his commute home from work, I picked up the phone. After several long rings, I heard the familiar click and the disembodied voice came on. I spoke after the beep: "Hi Sweetheart, it's Mom. Just wanted to wish you a Happy Birthday. Love you."

I hate this: I hate not being part of my son's life. As I told my husband when my son decided to settle on the west coast, "I expected him to move across town, not across country." But we all know children have minds of their own.

How did this sorry state of affairs happen? I suppose part of the reason is my husband and I believe in independence and we raised my son to think for himself. While part of me is very proud of the life he's made, another yearns for the times he'd turn to me with earth-shaking questions such as: "Mommy, what's thunder? What's lightening" I'd answer, "That's God's horse-drawn coach rolling across heaven. And lightening is cracking the whip over their heads to make them go faster." Oh, how good I was at solving those problems. I don't know how I smartened up so well; I was so inexperienced when I had him.

I'd just turned twenty when he was born and I thought I was ready. Sure I was. For someone raised as an only child and who only babysat when desperate for money, I was about ready as a flea. I'm sure I invented the word 'ignorance.'

I remember being scared to death to pick up that newborn baby. He looked so helpless and fragile lying there blinking up at me with those big blue eyes. I just knew I'd break something. My mother had to show me how to hold him.

Thank goodness for my mother. As a nursery nurse at a local hospital, she was a godsend. The first couple of weeks she'd rush over to spend time with the baby, and I was so ready to turn him over to her. I was worn out because he cried constantly--until she picked him up. Then he slept, which is something he didn't do around me. Mom said he sensed my nervousness. Must have been, because as soon as she cooed at him, he drifted right off. Me, too. It took a while longer to realize I was the one keeping him awake at night.

At bedtime, I placed his bassinet right by my side so I could hear him if he woke. And I took the doctor's word literally about feeding schedules. So literally I was terrified I'd sleep right through his middle-of-the-night feeding and he'd starve to death before morning. So, I came up with a brilliant plan--I'd set the alarm every four hours so I'd be awake in case he cried. Well, of course he cried; the alarm jarred him awake.

I sometimes wonder how either of us made it through his childhood. But we did. I suppose that was the start of his independence. He had to develop it in order to survive some of his mother's ideas.

When it came time for him to leave home, it was okay. I wasn't one of those clinging mothers. I was ready. With both of us being a little head-strong, it was time for him to set up his own household. That's the natural order of things. After all, it wasn't like he was leaving forever. My mother and I are still very close.

But with a boy, it's different.

Soon, he marries. Then he turns to his wife to discuss those big, important issues he used to discuss with you. Then he has children of his own.

Thank goodness life goes on.

But sometimes, when things are quiet, I can still hear the slam of the door and that squeaky little voice saying, "Mom? I just gotta tell ya..."