Denise Snodell: Fog of parenthood rolls in — again

My kids are in college. This means I now “parent” from afar. It’s pretty relaxing.

However, the guys do return home from time to time, mainly to remind me of my analog ways. Most recently they were here for parts of their “overlapping” spring breaks. It was a revolving door situation. One was home. The other wasn’t. One wasn’t home. The other was.

With each boy, I stood ready to partake in throwback thoughts and actions, but always with good intentions. I’m a tail-end baby boomer. My sons are tail-end millennials. We navigate the world differently. Literally.

Their March visits blew in two reminders of our diverse approaches.

The first occurred when my youngest drove almost six hours home, dropped his duffel bags on the kitchen floor and then announced he was leaving in a mere 20 minutes to visit a distant friend. He had just enough time to refill his water bottle, cull his luggage for the trip-within-a-trip and absorb my motherly concern.

I inquired, “Do you know how to get there? How are you connecting to I-70, by 435 or 470?”

He looked at me through his youth goggles, like there was no reason to know these highways had names. I was some organic weirdo with interstate codes stored in my brain cells, as opposed to where they should be — floating somewhere on a corporate cloud. Sure, he’d be taking these highways, but why know them? Why visualize the trip?

He said, in a most pfffft way, “Mom. I have a phone.”

A voice would just tell him where to merge on, where to peel off, when to go right or left, whatever.

“What if your phone fizzles or you drop it at the gas station? What if there’s a solar flare? You need at least a basic idea about where you’re going.”

We went back and forth on this. I ran down to the basement to unearth my Rand McNally road atlas, just to show him a physical visual. This wasn’t the first time I conjured the beloved relic.

I could not help myself. He needed to know highways weren’t just ethereal vapor portals that appear when a voice guides you to them. They are concrete things with actual long stretches and loops and destinations. He did not indulge me. Directions on paper are kryptonite for people his age. He waved his phone in the air, gave me an eye roll and a hug. Off he went. Successfully, I might add.

The second incident happened a few days later. Firstborn was hopping a plane with friends. The flight boarded at 5 a.m. Just three months ago, I promised myself I’d avoid middle-of-the-night airport runs. But once again, I couldn’t picture this particular gang getting to the gate in a timely fashion. I stupidly volunteered to Uber them. Unlike the previous icy December fiasco, I figured this time the weather would be better. There would be no slippery roads. No white knuckles.

I forgot about fog. Thick fog. The thickest fog I had ever disappeared into.

My son was riding shotgun. His friends were in the back seats. I turned into an embarrassing sitcom episode of a cautious mom. The whole 45-minute drive, I leaned forward, chin too close to the steering wheel.

I chattered nonstop analog knowledge of the journey: “Welp, we can’t even see the overhead signs/The visibility might be even worse when we cross the river/No worries, guys/Two left exits ahead/A large 635 sign is painted on the left lane asphalt just before the exit/The I-29 ramp will be steep and sharp, see…”

Did this amazing bat radar really make a difference? Doubt it. The guys didn’t seem impressed with my spatial heroics and flawless directional instincts. Deep down, we all knew the Apple maps robot would have sliced them through the fog and straight to the airport without me.

I just have to wait for a phone-zapping solar flare. Then, these millennials will finally appreciate my generation. That’ll be day the rubber meets the road.

This story was originally published March 22, 2016 at 5:09 PM with the headline "Denise Snodell: Fog of parenthood rolls in — again."