By Deborah Prum

These days we communicate via cell phone, email, texting, Facebook, Twitter, Skype and who knows what else. Regardless where our children roam, we expect to be able to stay in touch with them. Some of us live under the illusion that because we are able to reach our children, we somehow can keep them safe.

This was not true in the 1980’s when my brother-in-law, Richard, was in college and an ornithologist-in-training. Back then, he spent several months at a research site in a remote area of Peru. I believe members of The Shining Path (a terrorist group) were his closest neighbors. While he was away, my mother-in-law never actually heard from him; she only heard about him, receiving information every couple of weeks.

He sent short wave radio messages at a prearranged time to a fellow researcher in Michigan. That man would phone my mother-in-law in Boston. The messages were succinct, like: Not Dead. Or, Got Lice Today. Or, Jungle Wet, Foot Fungus Abounds. (Yes, I’m making up this part, but you get the idea.)

A few years ago, during winter break, my son Eric and his college buddy Josh announced they were making a road trip to New Orleans. New Orleans? I’d been there and knew they could get into plenty of trouble, both in the city and on the way.

But I didn’t bother to dissuade them. I knew I’d be wasting my breath. Since childhood, Eric has been consumed by wanderlust.

So, off they drove in a dilapidated car, with very little money in their pockets and, as far as we could tell, only a vague idea of the itinerary. Eric promised to call every day. I heard from him on the first day of the trip, but not on the second. I didn’t worry—Eric often wandered off of my radar screen.

On the morning of the third day, I tried his cell a few times. The calls went straight to voice mail. I felt more irritated than anxious. On the evening of the third day, a number from Georgia popped up on caller ID as our phone rang.

An unfamiliar voice asked if this was the home of my son. The owner of a restaurant told me that she’d found Eric’s wallet, license but no money, in a dumpster in the alley behind her building.

Isn’t this the phone call all parents dread?

I instantly pictured Eric dead in the bottom of that dumpster. If he had merely lost his wallet, he would have called asking us to send money, right?

After a couple of hours of calling around, we finally reached Josh. He answered his phone, calm and cool. “Everything’s fine. We’re having a great time. Eric forgot his charger at home. So his phone is dead. I guess he’s just forgotten to call on another phone. And, oh yeah, Eric forgot his wallet on the table of a restaurant.”

Lots of forgetting. At least they were having a great time.

What’s my point? Years ago, when Richard chased exotic birds in a Peruvian jungle, my mother-in-law did not expect to hear from him directly or even to hear about him frequently. Therefore, the anticipated lack of news about Richard did not inspire dread and anxiety in her.

However, these days our children have access to myriad ways of communicating, so when we don’t hear from them, we do worry.

Our children leave the nest, off on road trips, off to college, off to foreign countries. We, as parents, try to balance letting go with keeping in touch, trying to make sure our offspring are safe, even though there’s not a lot we can do if they’re not. We depend on cell phones and laptops to work and on our children to be considerate. Sometimes, our expectations are met, but as often, the universe sends a surprise our way.

I am grateful that Eric thinks of the whole wide world as his neighborhood. That he’s not simply learning about the world through a screen, but out in the middle of it, living.

Maybe we shouldn’t put so much trust in technology. Maybe we should be grateful that our offspring possess curious minds and intrepid spirits.

Where in the world are our children? Everywhere. And, in the long run, it’s probably a good thing.