It took an incidental coffee with a reporter from New York for me to see the poignancy of my son's decision to study journalism.
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Steve and I shared stories about his Hudson Valley and our Tamar Valley.
We smiled about lots of things: Like the (hoped-for) impeachment of Donald Trump, the salted caramel on soft chocolate cake base we shared and the quality of farm produce from our home states.
But I smiled my largest smile when he asked how I felt about my son following in my footsteps to study journalism and work in the ‘family business’.
“When did you know your son could write?”
I never ‘studied’ the craft of journalism. But our son is, and he loves it. Never mind that being paid for your words has become worthless. Never mind it will never be Monday to Friday work hours.
A journalist, Steve had succinctly asked a question I'd never considered asking myself.
I knew the answer. I knew the moment I realised our son could write:
“When he was in grade 10, I saw him write 1000 words in an afternoon. He was on his x-box and lap top simultaneously writing and gaming. His words had a beginning and an end and in the middle they made a point,” I said.
Steve, father of two girls aged 11 and 14, pointed straight across the café table, up to the point between my eyes. We nodded and smiled energetically at my epiphany.
When he was in grade 10, I saw him write 1000 words in an afternoon. He was on his x-box and lap top simultaneously writing and gaming.
“So, your son’s in the family business!” he said.
Why didn't I see that earlier, like when he enrolled in journalism at Monash? Instead of pride, my first thought had been “shit, he’ll always be poor!”.
While he would have had job security as a plumber, a good income as a builder and financial competence as an accountant, he's gone into the family business and it’s taken me almost two years to bask in the pleasure that he's chosen to follow in my footsteps.
My feminist self is also chuffed; his choice is a glorious bonus at this stage in my career.
He will always have to juggle his finances. He will envy the public holidays enjoyed by his mates in the Monday to Friday, 9-5 world; but he’s in the family business.
This must be how dairy farmers feel when a child decides to take over the farm. Well almost, because even dairying is more secure than journalism these days.
In three weeks our son will leave to study a journalism semester at the University of Missouri; units of political science (in Trump’s America!) and the history of American literature, make me totally green in the envy sense.
Since he left home to study the emptiness I've felt has been close to unbearable. Hearing children play next door has been enough to make me cry and seriously, Mothers Day has been more like Halloween, without the sweets.
His sisters have been gone for a decade; he's the last to go and something profoundly sweet happened over that café table with Steve from the Hudson Valley.
Instead of the pain of distance, for the first time, I felt my son close as a kindred spirit.
These days I don't work in a newsroom, but Steve’s great question has shown me that now it's my son’s turn and all the others like him.
However, my son’s got an edge.
He’s got ink in his blood and he's in the family business.
