Mom on the run: Uncommunicative son drives entire family crazy

The evening fun begins as I've barely left work. My cell vibrates and it's my husband. "Where is our son?" he asks. "Andrew's," I tell him. "Why?"

"I have those tickets," he tells me. I remember—some free hockey promotional event. "I need to know if he wants to go. He's not answering his cell phone."

"He never answers his cell phone," I snort. This is a recurring problem. "Hang on, I'll call their house and have him call you." Minutes later, I've got Andrew's dad on the phone, and he's hollering for my kid. "Pick it up downstairs," I hear Eddie yell. I hear a click, breathing, and I pounce: "Did you see your dad was trying to call you?" "Uh, yeah, I just got a text message from him." Just now got it. Right. "He needs to know if you're going to that thing tonight."

"Well, there's a football game," my son says.

"Whatever you decide, but tell him."

And that's it. After my intervention, my boys talked, decided to skip the hockey promo, and I moved on … to home and dinner, where, an hour later, chicken marinating and cornbread baking, my daughter gets a text: "Can you come pick me up?" She looks at me, sighs, and picks up the car keys. She's only been home for a few minutes herself, so: "Thanks for getting him," I say sincerely. Her younger brother just started high school and his social life has exploded, and some-body's always running him somewhere. His sister does a lot of it and I am truly grateful.

But she calls too soon after she leaves: "Do you know where he is? He's not here." "Yes," I say. "He's at Andrew's." "Andrew's?! Why didn't he tell me that?" Apparently my daughter had texted her brother right away: "Leaving for school now," to which he replied "OK," not bothering to mention that he wasn't at school. "Fine," she grunts, clearly and reasonably annoyed. "I'll go there."

I'm already planning to lecture my son on that oversight when they walk in a little bit later. But he surprises and distracts me too soon: "Andrew's mom and dad are driving us to the game. It starts at 6." My eyes fly to the clock, and: "Oh! I'd better get moving!" I pick up the pace to have some dinner ready for him in the 15 minutes before he leaves. I throw the vegetables in the microwave, check the chicken on the grill, turn up the heat under the rice.

And in record time: "Dinner's ready. Come eat, they're going to be here any min-ute."

"I already ate at Andrew's," my 14-year-old tells me.

"What?" I ask, deflated and irritated. Guess I didn't have to rush after all. Though I had to make dinner anyway, and cranking it out a few minutes early didn't hurt anything. Still, "Tell me that next time, OK?" I get a shrug and a "sure."

Now it's hours later. Dinner has been eaten and cleaned up. People are settled into evening activities—daughter is watching TV, dad is on his computer. I've just opened e-mail myself—finally, it's been days, hope there's nothing important in here—when I get a text from my son. "Game's almost over." Huh. Why is he telling me this? "OK." I go back to e-mail.

Until the landline phone rings. "Hey, can someone come get me?"

"What?" I ask.

"I need a ride home," he says.

I grab my keys and hustle to the car, wondering and a little worried. At the school, I pull up and he slides in. "What happened? You went to the game with Andrew's family. Why didn't they bring you home?"

"Andrew had to leave early."

Pause.

"How long ago did you know this?"

"Since this afternoon."

And that's it. After tonight's string of assumptions, irresponsibility, and poor communica-tions, I snap. I sprout fangs and horns and claws and I throw back my head and I roar.

Lianne Wilkens lives with her family in Manassas. She can be reached at liannewilkens@ hotmail.com, or follow her on Twitter @MessengerMOTR