I have been employed outside my home as our family's primary breadwinner since the first of our three kids was a gleam in his father's eye. 

When the kids were little, with both of us on the job, our main source of information about the little ones came from those who took care of them – people from day care and school or my mother-in-law, who lives with us and covers emergency gaps in child care.

At that time, the kids couldn't tell us themselves that they needed more diapers or a change of clothes or that they had been suspended from kindergarten for a repeat offense of mooning their classmates. 

(Er, not that any of my kids ever did that.) 

The grown-ups in charge called us on our cell phones at our desks, in meetings, or – rather often, given our daily commutes to and from D.C. – at the wheel.

As they got older, the kids were sometimes invited to the phone to talk once the particulars of the situation at hand had been exchanged by the adults.

These exchanges were unproductive – long on mouth-breathing and tangents and short on actual information. 

If I hadn't feared that my adult interlocutor would judge me – or worse, that my kid would feel rejected – I would have skipped these “conversations” all together.

My phone chats with a 4-year-old, for example, sounded something like this:

ME: Hi, [name redacted], it's Mommy. How are you?

BOY: Hi, Mommy. [Silence]

ME: How's my buddy?

BOY: OK. [Breathes into mouthpiece] Mommy?

ME: [wrestling to plug in hands-free device without steering car off road] Yes, honey?

BOY: Mommy? Can I have a new Transformer?

ME:  Maybe on our next surprise day. I'll be home soon, okay?

BOY: [heavy breathing sound]

ME: Okay, baby, Mommy's going to go now.

Last year, we started seeing hints that the kids were ready for direct communication. That was when the oldest, then 12 (now 13), asked for his own cell phone. 

We got him a phone, but it turned out he was primarily interested in downloading heavy metal ringtones and texting us to find out when we would be home.

About six months ago, the younger two kids caught up and started calling us directly.

The 11-year-old calls to importune us for his own cell phone and more computer time. The 8-year-old, like her oldest brother, wants to know when we'll be home and what the family is doing tonight.

Being able to coordinate directly with them on things like homework and evening plans comes in handy. Hearing them sound like reasonable near-adults on the phone is – well, it's really cool, and it's a little weird. I alternate between bursting with pride at how grown-up they are and feeling kind of let down when they want to get off the phone with me and go about their own business.

When my kids were little, it felt like they would be helpless forever.

I remember feeling like a small kid myself in the way that short stretches of time (How long until regular milk? Solid food? No more diapers?) seemed eternal. Now that they're older, time has regained its adult, breakneck speed for me, and it speeds up more for them each year.

And, as I'm careening up Route 29 with my new headset (which looks like I should be piloting a helicopter, not a minivan), I'm glad to just be in the moment with them for a second – if not in person, then at least on the phone.