Webupon

Emails have all but replaced letters in our society. They have also helped do away with little notes among immediate family members. Beware though, because the wondrous cyberspace doesn’t always make sure those emails arrive.

My daughter is thirteen and experiencing all kinds of firsts, many of which are due to adolescent hormones. The third child and only daughter of divorced parents living in two different states, she has found the world of emails beneficial when she wants to ask her daddy for something.

One evening I found an email in my own box from her. It was a simple “I love you, Mommy” letter reminiscent of drawings that used to decorate our refrigerator, long replaced by sports and cheerleading practice schedules.

Smiling and just a little teary-eyed, I quickly typed a sentimental reply and clicked send. This began a week of hormonal war and dead silence in our home.

The first day this happened (yes, I admit to being a blonde), this working mother didn’t pick up on the sullen attitude that arrived after my daughter got off the computer as being directed, well, at me. I assumed her father just hadn’t emailed her or perhaps said no to some request.

“Did your dad not write today, Sweetie?”

“Yes, my dad always answers my letters.”

I quickly assured her I wasn’t bad-mouthing her father and that was the end of the conversation.

A few days later, she won tickets to see her favorite country music singer Gretchen Wilson. It would be her first time at a live concert and I was dying to share the experience with her. Mom, however, was still ostracized although it was unclear why.

She got the tickets less than an hour before show time and was determined to take anyone but me, even if it meant tracking down the mailman. Such extreme measures weren’t needed however as she quickly found a friend to go with and I was left at home wishing with all my heart that she had “picked me”.

Four hours later she floated in aglow with the excitement and wonder of the concert. She chattered away as she got ready for bed. I was happy for her. I told her how much I loved her and how she reminded me of a younger version of herself at Christmastime.

“Only I’m too big for love letters from you, right, Mom?”

Confused, I asked her what she meant. With tears in her eyes she told me she had been mad at me for a week over an email she had sent me.

“You mean the one last week saying how much you love me, right?”

She nodded, her adolescent heart breaking as she described checking her email every day. There were plenty of emails from her father and the one announcing her as the recipient of the tickets but not one from her mother.

I took her hand and led her to the computer. Opening my email, I then sat her down in front of the monitor.

“Click on the Sent folder.”

She did and within moments found a copy of the response I had written dated the very evening of her initial email.

I don’t know why it never got to her inbox. I don’t know why she had to suffer needlessly for a week or why a misunderstanding stopped us from sharing a “first” for her but I will never forget the way her face lit up as she read my response:

“Sweetie, I love you, too. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve the greatest daughter in the world but I thank God every day for you. Love, Mom.”

Just to be safe, I make sure to tell her and her brothers how much they mean to me even more now. It’s hard enough being an adolescent teenage girl with fears of peer acceptance. She’s never going to have reason to doubt Mom’s love again.

(I also make sure I save everything to my “Sent” folder.)