Several months ago, a friend sent me an e-mail in which I had to use one word to describe him, and then send it back. Then, I could send the e-mail to my friends and have them describe me.

Leland's word was “breath” ... and he had a different word for each letter.

Amanda's was MOM. Some others were “powerful” ... “life” ... “positive.”

But, if I had to pick one to describe me ... at least in relationship to my children, it would be “available.”

That’s what they are.

When they're babies, you are there. You might have to go to work for eight to nine to 10 hours a day, but then, you are there for them. And, if they need you while you are at work, well, then, in many cases you come to them.

Later, you arrange your schedule around their schedule. You make your plans around their plans. You can be with your friends because they're with their friends.

Then they go to college. You make plans. They come home. You break plans. Why?

Because that’s what parents do.

I remember when the four of us were having dinner, the phone would be like a plague, a scourge. The rule was: Do not answer the phone during dinner. This is us time. Family time. Not-to-be disturbed time.

Now, the phone rings during dinner. "Answer it?" Bruce may ask. Sure, it might be the kids.
The other night, as Bruce and I sat down to dinner, I brought my cell phone to the table ... as I usually do. Just in case.

We had dinner, then I went to the kitchen to start the dishes.

I came back out to the dining room and Bruce's cell phone was ringing. Mine showed missed calls.
Oh, no! I missed his call! He had tried three times and the water drowned out his singing (his ring is actually him singing to me).

I felt so horrible. I was not available.

Available, my word. What I still need to be.

And I wasn't.

Maybe I should just have my phone implanted in my hip.

‹ Phyllis R. Sigal is design editor at The Intelligencer and Wheeling News-Register and designer of Ohio Valley Parent. She is the mom of Amanda, 21, and Leland, 19.