Mothering

My mother used to tell me that once a mother, always a mother.  Even when your children are in their fifties.   That was her explanation for the "You're not . . . " statement.  "You're not . . . going to stay up late preparing lessons,"  or, "You're not . . . going outside without your heavy coat on," or "You're not . . . making a round trip to Saskatoon in one day."

I, of course, would be different.  I would not hover over my adult children.  Well, today, I hovered.  Last night, I texted our daughter to arrange a time for a chat.  No reply.  Not too extraordinary--she has deadlines looming.  I texted again this morning.  No reply.  I called.  Answering machine.  Now, my anxiety level is rising.  A graphic artist, Dominique is working on a big animation project out of her home.  She could have fallen, lying there, unconscious . . . or worse.

Concentrating on my own project has become a challenge.  I leave a message on Facebook and Skype, I email, I call every fifteen minutes.  Between calls, I recite the  dozens of reasonable explanations:  she might have turned off the ringer, or her phone needs charging, or she left it in another room.   Practically slapping my fingers, I resist the temptation to text her partner for reassurance.  Eventually, it's supper time, and I can justify a call.  "She's right here," Andy says, in response to my call and my perfunctory acknowledgment of his cold.  Now, I can breathe.

She is so sweet, not patronizing, not resentful of my hovering, just understanding.  In September, she had a similar experience trying to get in touch with her brother.  I am so grateful.  In essence, she has mothered me, not only releasing me from my over-reaction but blessing me for it.

This, too, is delight.