So I talked to College Kid the other day. Well, maybe "talk" is a bit of an exaggeration. We texted. College Kid doesn't talk.

And I'm happy to report he's doing well. Football is hard. He's tired. College kid's texts are usually three words... or less. And the modern, up-to-date hipster that I am, I've gotten proficient at texting.

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Can you call? I typed back. We'd like to talk to you.

"Mom," my still at home one said while he watched me peck out the letters on my iPhone. "Nobody texts in complete words with perfect punctuation."

"Oh." I said. I've got a lot to learn about texting, apparently.

Can't, came his reply. Wiped out.

You get the gist.

Truth of the matter is, he is working hard. They're in "camp". Not "camp" as in the mess hall and canoe across the lake and eat s'mores while singing around the campfire kind of camp. No, not that kind of camp.

Football camp. As in the hot and sweaty 100 yard runs and weight lifting and hit the tackling dummy until your arms and legs want to fall off kind of camp.

So he really is tired. And texting takes less energy than talking, apparently.

There was a phone call the other day though.

"Mom," he said, from 3,000 miles away. "What do you do with the detergent?" College Kid was at the laundromat.

"Did you already put the clothes in the washer?" was my reply. I know. He thought it was a dumb question too.

"Of course," he shot back.

I know what you're thinking. What kind of a mother sends her kid off to college without teaching him how to do his laundry?

Not me.

However, I didn't account for the fact that the laundromat would sell powdered detergent.

The house feels empty without him. There's leftovers at the dinner table and we've had the same gallon of milk for a week. And while there's still mounds of laundry to do, there are fewer mounds than there were just a month ago.

His room's been clean for a month now. It's kind of scary. I've taken to keeping the door closed so I don't have to see it.

And I'm waiting for the day when I don't get choked up when I walk by his empty bedroom, when the memories of his childhood don't wash over me and catch me off guard. When I stop waiting for the next three-word-text to come because I miss him with every bone in my body.

Give it time.