If I'd ever sat down to think it through all the way down the line before I had any kids, I imagine I would have accepted that my job was to raise my daughters to be "good" kids - to display all kinds of positive qualities, probably a sort of Boy-Scout-trait checklist, (thrifty, clean, brave, reverent, etc., with "good steward of the earth's resources" thrown in for good measure). I would have thought that once I got them raised to be adults, and they were out of the house with families of their own, their lives were their own responsibility and my job was essentially done.
I would have been so silly, and so wrong.
That reality is brought home to me each time a crisis or calamity occurs that affects one of those daughters. When a grown daughter needs sudden and unexpected surgery, she might as well be 6, because I can't be at ease until I know she's made it through okay. Yes, I know she has a husband who loves her dearly and is with her. Yes, I know the medical personnel are capable and that this surgery is not usually dangerous. Yes, I know that it's impossible to go through life without trauma of one kind or another.
I know all those things in my head. In my heart, what I know is that no matter how old they are, they are my children (who were once upon a time my babies), and seeing them hurt, hurts. And I want to fix it.
So I try to walk the fine line between helpful mom and overprotective mom, and throw in just a hint of a breezy "you'll be just fine" vibe to help keep my upper lip stiff. I will myself NOT to call every hour on the hour to make sure she's still feeling okay. I tell myself she will obey the doctor's orders to take it easy. I remind myself that she is a wonderful, responsible, level-headed person who is perfectly capable of asking for help if she needs it.
But when something like this happens, I don't feel like Mom, I feel like Mama, wishing I could hold her on my lap and hug her and make it better.
