 Usually that means that one of my older sons needs money, has a
question about taxes or has an embarrassing rash. These are big
strapping men, with brains to spare, but getting a 1099 in the mail,
or seeing something swell that isn't supposed to, will put them into
a major tailspin. That's where I come in. The All-Powerful,
Ever-Knowing ... Mom. The go-to person for all mysterious things.
Well, dethatching will have to wait. My boys need me. Secretly
pleased that they might still need me once in a while, I checked my
cell phone only to see that neither of them needed me after all. The
caller ID listed a number that was vaguely familiar, but I couldn't
place it right away. I pushed the "OK" button and called the number
back.
It was my 25-year-old son's girlfriend. She was five hours away
and convinced that something awful had happened to my son because
she hadn't been able to reach him for 24 hours. "It's just not like
him," she said.
Those five words are all a mother needs to put her over the edge.
I told her not to worry, that he was probably fine, and then I hung
up and promptly started worrying. "It's just not like him" kept
bouncing around my head, and I decided that he was probably fine,
but I would never forgive myself if he was sitting in an emergency
room listed as John Doe and needed a blood transfusion from a close
relative. Possibly me.
I'm coming, son! I convinced my husband that we needed to drive
an hour and a half to see if our son's car was in front of his
apartment. We dropped everything and started driving.
He's fine, I kept telling myself. He's just been sleeping for the
last 24 hours. No, nobody could sleep that long. But he's fine.
He was probably in the shower when she called ... For 24 hours? I
don't think so. But he's fine.
He could've gone to a friend's house for the night. No way. He
doesn't even like spending the night at our house, much less someone
else's. But he's fine.
For an hour and half I told myself to stay calm, that there's a
perfectly reasonable explanation. But for every reasonable
explanation there were at least five scenarios that were straight
out of a nightmare.
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 He's in a ditch, trapped in his car,
which is not visible from the highway. Wolves are circling because
he has a week-old Quarter Pounder in the back seat.
Maybe he was one of those rare people who have a heart attack in
their 20s. I could picture him standing on his third-story balcony
when it happened. He's probably been hanging on the balcony by his
belt loop since last night.
He fell down a flight of stairs, broke his legs... and his
ankles... and can't reach the phone. Even if he could, he broke both
wrists, too, and can only dial with his nose, which is too big for
the tiny buttons.
Finally, we arrive. His car is there. Oh no. It must've been the
heart attack! I sprinted up three flights of stairs (which is
something I didn't know I could still do) and pounded on his door.
My son answered in his bathrobe, looking tired and annoyed. My
mothering eye looked him over from head to foot. No broken bones.
Color is good, except for the 5 o'clock shadow. He appeared to be
standing upright with very little help from the doorjamb.
"What are you doing here?" he asked grumpily, obviously annoyed
to be bothered by his mother when he didn't need money, answers
about taxes and there was not a single dermatological incident on
his body.
I could've said, "I'm here to save your miserable life, you
ungrateful wretch."
Just in time, however, I realized how insane that would've
sounded, being that he was in fact hale and hearty, and instead I
found myself defending my actions: "It's not my fault this time!
Call your girlfriend. She's worried about you."
In case you're wondering, he accidentally had his cell phone on
vibrate and only just realized that there were 26 missed calls.
See? I knew he was fine.
[By LAURA SNYDER]
You can reach the writer at
lsnyder@lauraonlife.com
Or visit www.lauraonlife.com
for more columns and info about her books.
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