Oct 30, 2020 4 min read

Most mornings around here start with a cry – not a gentle, weepy interlude but an ugly, slobbery jag that ends as abruptly as it starts.

You can see a Hollywood version of this strange proclivity in the movie “Broadcast News,” in which Holly Hunter unplugs her phone every morning so she can have an uninterrupted breakdown. Her character is a television producer like I am, so there’s symmetry to this weirdness.

The crying jags are a pandemic thing; they started around mid-summer when I woke to realize I hadn’t been in the presence of my son in over six months. That alone might not have been enough to launch the tears, but what really got me going was knowing it would likely be six months more before I would see him in person.

Cooper is in the Los Angeles area, working from his apartment as a film and video editor. The first half-year out there, he made good use of the beaches, the hiking, the sunshine – the whole outdoor lifestyle.

Most of that lifestyle is out of reach now, as is any chance for a long flight or even longer drive. I miss him terribly, and so I cry.

If he lived within, say, a four-hour drive, I would cook his favorite meals, package them up and go – as often as my schedule would allow. But California is frustratingly out of reach.

How does one safely span that distance?

My morning cry always ends the same way: with my logging into my Venmo account. Venmo is a phone app that allows the instantaneous transfer of money. Young people use it to pay each other back for meals or drinks or rides. It was a handy way to send my son a few dollars when he was in college, and it’s the way to get “emergency” funds to my daughter, who is a junior in college.

Every wake-up cry leaves me feeling adrift, like I have to do something to connect with my son. It’s too early at 8 a.m. here for a call to California, and the way my brain works, I can’t move on with the day until I make a connection.

And so I send him some money. I know, bad parenting, but these are extraordinary times. Besides, it’s never much money and I always indicate what the cash is for. Yesterday it was “beets and celery,” good for the heart, the day before was “apples and berries.” Every cash transfer is followed by a automated e-mail to him, indicating who sent the money and what it’s for.

I suspect he’s using some of the money to buy crickets.

He and his girlfriend have a menagerie: aquariums filled with all the usual things as well as an axolotl, an amphibian better known as a “walking fish” that they rescued, as well as a blue tarantula, which I think explains the crickets.

“Thanks, momma,” is the reply I get when the cash goes through. It’s not as good as a phone call, and nowhere near as good as having him sitting next to me, but it’s something.

We usually do a FaceTime talk on Sunday. It’s always good to see his handsome, bearded self on my phone screen. Coop shows me his pets, explaining the improvements he’s making to the aquariums.

Last weekend, he told me he plans to fly home at Christmas and spend a few weeks here. I hope he’s able to do that. And if he does, I hope we can safely sit together and get all caught up.

I’ve gone way too long without it.

Until then, there will be cricket money for the tarantula. And a good daily cry for me.