I gave Number One Son Sean a call one night earlier this week. He’d promised he would call me on Father’s Day but never did, nor did he call the weekend after that, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.
He picked up on the second ring. “Dad?” His voice had a note of trepidation in it. I don’t call him very often; he usually calls his mother and I listen in, commenting occasionally. Nobody who was familiar with the frequency of my phone calls to anyone in my family would think Sean was overreacting if he thought the only reason I would call him on an odd week night would be to tell him someone was dead or gravely injured.
Dear reader, I confess that I messed with him a little bit. “Sean?” I asked, in the same trepidatious voice he used when he answered.
“What’s up?”
“Not much,” I said light-heartedly. “I just called to chat.”
He guffawed in a ‘don’t ever do that to me again’ kind of way and said, “Oh. Okay.” And then we had a nice conversation.
This Is Drivel 