“Who are you texting?” I ask for the umpteenth time. He’s sitting on the couch in the living room, his thumbs moving a mile a minute. He stops for a moment and the little red phone buzzes. His eyes scour the screen and his thumbs go back to work.

“What difference does it make?” is his response.

“It doesn’t,” I say. I’m just curious.

“You don’t know them anyway.”

Touche′. “That’s not the point,” I say.

There are good days and bad days on this journey we call parenthood. Today is a bad day.

A couple of years ago, I was visiting my brother in New Jersey. His daughter, who was about 4 or 5 at the time, followed me into the bathroom.

“Whatcha doing Aunt Suzanne?”

“Taking a shower.”

“Do you want some privacy?”

“Yes please,” I say. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.

“Okay,” she says. She’s standing on the small tan bath mat in front of the shower and I’m rummaging around, looking for the shampoo. She doesn’t move.

“You want privacy?” she asks again.

“Yes. Aunt Suzanne wants some privacy. I’m going to take a shower. I’ll come play with you in a few minutes."

“OK,” she says, still standing on the tan bath mat. “I watch.”

Watch? Did she say watch? Maybe she didn’t hear me.

“Aunt Suzanne would like some privacy,” I say again.

“Privacy?”

“Yes,” I say. “Privacy.”

“OK,” she repeats from her post. “I watch.”

This is not going well. I don’t like to think of myself as a prude, but there are some things I prefer to do without an audience.

We have two dogs that we rescued from a local shelter. They’re sweet and loving and they have attached themselves to me. Apparently they have decided that I’m their person. They follow me everywhere. From the kitchen to the bedroom where they watch me brush my teeth. From the bedroom to the living room to pick up dirty dishes. From the living room to the laundry room where I fold the towels and when the phone rings, they follow me from the laundry room back to the kitchen again as I reach for the receiver. They follow me everywhere. Even into the bathroom.

I’m never alone.

“I would like some privacy,” I say to them as they stand before me. “Aunt Suzanne wants some privacy.”

“OK,” they say in their own doggie way. “We watch.”

“Why do you always need to know what we’re doing?” my son snaps. Apparently my curiosity is getting the better of him.

The truth is, I really don’t know. I’m having a tough time letting go. Struggling with the fine line between want and need. Wanting to make sure they don’t get in over their heads and realizing I can’t really stop them.

When I was a kid my parents gave my siblings and I our own phone. It was a blue rotary dial and it sat at the top of the stairs. It had a very long cord and we’d take turns schlepping it into our bedrooms for privacy. My spot was the closet. I’d grab the phone and shutting the door behind me, sit on the floor for hours talking to my boyfriend du jour or my best friend Anne.

I don’t remember my parents ever asking what we talked about.

Just to be clear, I’m not a snoop. I don’t read their texts or their email. I don’t listen to their voicemail. I don’t sort through their backpacks or go through their drawers when they’re not home. Their phones are often left out on the counter and I don’t ever feel the need to peek.

But somehow, when they’re sitting right in front of me, texting away, I want to know. Who are they communicating with? On the other end of that imaginary phone line, someone else has joined the conversation. I want to know, who is in the room with us?

Is that too much to ask?

I’m having a tough time letting go. I know I have to. I know it’s natural. I know it’s the next step. It’s what I’ve been preparing for for a long time.

It’s just that it’s hard.

“Can we just have a little privacy?” they ask.

“OK,” I say, even though it’s killing me, and I take my place on the small tan bath mat.

"I watch", I say silently to myself. "I watch."