PenPenWrites

We are in Budapest, traveling around, seeing the world, sending home emails to our grandchildren. We understand they have opened their maps, are tracking our trip and, hopefully, gaining a sense of the world from the details we provide. We tell them that Budapest is a very bicycle-friendly city–even the traffic lights have little bicycles on the red and green orbs to let bicyclists–not just pedestrians–know when it's safe to cross the street and when to stop. We also write about the stone lions that stand guard at one of the many bridges that cross the Danube and of the gold-gilded interior of the opera house.

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An email from one of the grandchildren–a 9-year-old–comes back at us. It is filled with chatter and questions about the details we've been sending. But at the end of the note is an addendum: from our grown son. The 9-year-old has broken his arm playing soccer; the mom is down with a migraine. There is no hint of a request for help. And yet, there's a pit-of-the stomach feeling: Part of me would like to confirm their well-being by being there. The old protective, maternal feelings kick in: Am I needed? Should I be there? And then there's the current reality: They are a family that can take care of itself. They know how to cope with these minor ups and downs and challenges. Stay where you are and enjoy the violins and the music that seems to float up from the Danube. Email the grandkids the photos of the bridge lions so they can enjoy them while you are.