Every now and then, my 20-something children clearly need me.
My daughter texts, asking if we can meet for lunch to talk about an existential issue she's struggling with.
My eldest calls to talk through a job application.
My youngest, on semester exchange at a university in Montreal this fall, calls me twice, shaken during his first week, first to tell me his bike has just been stolen, and then, two days later, his laptop.
It is in these moments that I know exactly who I am and what I am called to be.
I am called squarely to the front lines of my children's lives, where I offer the wise, nurturing calm of Earth Mother, skills that help them navigate life, skills I thrill to uplift in the best expression of myself.
When they need me, I am mother goddess Ashanti.
When they don't need me, I am simply obnoxious.
Like this summer, when I thought Benjie should be preparing for the Montreal exchange. Paperwork he needed to fill out, in French, no less, was infiltrating my email by the minute. Only he, who was getting the same emails, who knows French way better than I, was away at a remote camp just south of the Canadian border where there was no phone or other online access except for late at night.
It was up to me to start nagging.
"We first and quickly need to know if your passport is up to date. Is your passport up to date?" I texted him, to which he texted back, six days later, "I'm not sure."
To which I replied, "Can you look?"
To which he replied, four days later, "Sure."
To which I replied, "OK, when?"
To which he replied, another four days later, "After lunch."
A week's worth of camp beans came and went, at which point I sent a multitude of texts in a row, spelling the word P-A-S-S-P-O-R-T. Which I am known for doing when my kids won't answer my texts. Eight letters, eight pings. Which always, and quickly, nets a response. Which, in the case of my son, was "Yes, Mom, my passport is up to date."
I got the answer I needed, but at what cost to my self-respect; his level of respect for me; or his ability to figure out his own paperwork. Sometimes in this, I feel clever. Other times, like a stalker.
The obnoxious me, which is really a disguise for a mother who's afraid she's losing her job, showed up again when we got to Montreal, and I thought the little off-campus dorm-like room Benjie found all by himself was inadequately furnished.
"Wouldn't you like a comfortable chair and a floor lamp over here in the corner?" I suggested.
I hardly waited for an answer, but went to the concierge on our way to lunch and asked if "we" were allowed to have additional furniture, which, as it turns out, "we" weren't.
Standing next to me, Benjie tried to interject something along the lines of, "Never mind, sir," but Mother Knows Best waved him off. To my son's credit, and ironically mine, since children only speak to their parents like this when they trust them, my youngest told me a thing or two later that evening.
"I didn't want the chair and the lamp, Mom. I was trying to say that when you wouldn't let me talk," at which point I became both woman-splainer and enlightened, both of which can show up on these such occasions.
"I'm leaving you here in this big city, and I want you to have everything you need before you need it," I said.
But then, "I'm sorry. This is yours. I hear you. I trust you. I need to back off."
There's a plant called the touch-me-not plant, also known as the sensitive plant, that a friend recently introduced me to. Touch the tiny leaves of the plant and they shrink away until the coast is clear, at which point they blossom back into life.
The obnoxious mother could learn something from the sensitive plant, folding in when she sees her kids have got it, returning to full bloom when they tell her their computer was stolen.
Which, my son jokes, is because of me. And sardines.
I am the one who taught him sardines packed in olive oil are a good source of carry-it-with-you protein, which he was eating from a can that fateful day in the university student center when the laptop was stolen.
I am also the one who taught him sardine oil drips, and that if it drips on his clothes, he should get himself to a source of warm water and soap before it sets to stain.
"I did what you always told me, Mom. I went to the men's room to get the sardine oil off my pants. I only left my computer for two minutes. When I came back, it was gone."
There you have it. Damned if you do, damned if you don't, I shouldn't worry about my obsolescence. As long as there are sardines, I will always be part of the story.
