The last trip I took before the coronavirus placed a global pandemic-sized hold on my travel plans was to visit my sister, brother in law, and 2-year-old nephew in middle Tennessee. Though I’m glad I inadvertently snuck in one last hangout before a period of indefinite quarantine, I already miss the little dude.
Every time I see Grady, he’s added to his vocabulary, made progress with his motor skills, and has given a new dinosaur a ridiculously charming name — there’s Eddie, Flo, and Tree, for starters. How can I go two months or more (likely more because I am not risking exposing the young dino wrangler to a potentially debilitating disease) without seeing my favorite human?
Well, Zoom helps. Or Skype, Facebook’s video chat, whatever service you prefer. I’m not married to any particular platform, but I am here to say that, though I’m a dyed-in-the-wool luddite, these days I’m thanking my lucky stars for the modern convenience of video chat.
I’m young enough to be more or less comfortable with technology, but I’m old enough to remember the rotary telephone with its 16-foot coiled cord that hung on the wall in my family’s first home, our first telephone answering machine (cassette tape, not digital), our first computer, and AOL internet free trial discs. And I remember, when my dad lived in Memphis and my mom, sister, and I moved to Phoenix, Arizona, the pains of communicating only through the phone. We counted minutes, chalked long-distance rates up as a necessary expense, and I tried to imagine my dad’s expressions as I pressed the hard plastic receiver to my ear. So for me, a Zoom call feels like something right out of The Jetsons.
Of course, I know not everyone has easy access to the internet and an internet-capable device. As ubiquitous as the high-powered computers in most of our pockets seem, we haven’t made the leap to treating these modern-day necessities like the public utility they should be. Maybe COVID will change that. But that’s not my point today.
My point is that I get to see my nephew’s face light up when I wave into the camera on my computer monitor. I saw him scootch close to the screen when I changed my video background to the distinct blue sky and white clouds of Andy’s bedroom from Toy Story. I get to see him smile when he tells me about helping his mom in the garden or the kitchen.
I also get to laugh when he gets bored and, too young to grasp the concept of microphone etiquette, spins around in a circle while telling me a story, giving his toddler talk a Doppler effect. Another bonus of video calls is that you can get away with a lot more smiling and nodding.
So I guess what I’m saying is this quarantine sucks. There are no two ways about that. I miss my family. But not too long ago, I would have had to content myself with a few seconds of babbled conversation — the kid’s smart, but he has less patience for the disembodied voice of his uncle squawking from his mom’s phone speaker without an image to keep his interest. And before phones? Well, I’d be writing letters, I guess. I’m sure my sister would dutifully report that I miss him, but we wouldn’t be making memories together.
That’s how I’m framing this whole thing. Maybe he won’t remember this, but I will. I’ll remember how his eyes were drawn to the cat sitting on the back of my chair, how a video background seemed like magic. It’s not the same as holding his hand on a walk or playing him a song in person or pointing out the fish in the Memphis Zoo’s aquarium. And though I’m anxious to resume some semblance of normal life, for zoo trips and nature walks and sing-alongs, I’ll remember that, in a time of isolation and uncertainty, my biggest fan was only a Zoom call away.