| My little grandson Max is about 4 1/2 months old now, and I savor every moment with him. For some reason, I can’t seem to get enough of just staring at that sweet cherubic face. I have heard that having grandchildren is the reward that God gives you for living through your own children’s teenage years. Although I think we got off lucky with our own little teenage cherub, I am perhaps forgetting some of the craziness, as those years do seem to go by in a blur of friends, social events, messy rooms, and sleepless nights. Back in those days, cell phones were not quite as common as they are today, and when my daughter got her driver’s license, we got one to share. This means, of course, that SHE got the cell phone and I was stuck at home (she had the car, too), worrying and waiting for her arrival. Of course she got daily reminders not to use the phone while driving, and I hoped and prayed she was following that rule as well as staying under the speed limit. Another of the long list of rules was to arrive home on time, at or even better, BEFORE her curfew. I was a worrywart to begin with, and having a teen driver made it a lot worse. One particular evening comes to mind: She was supposed to be home by nine, and as usual, I was sitting home reading the Police Beat section of the local paper learning about wild underage drinking parties on the beach. At 8:45, even though it wasn’t time yet, I wondered if she was going to be late and/or was a participant in the latest wild teenage drinking party, so I dialed the phone. (Yes, I know this was not reasonable, but the worry of the mother of a teenager can easily defy all reason). It went to voicemail. (Uh, oh.) After about two minutes, the phone rang (insert sigh of relief here), and she told be she was running about 10 minutes late due to traffic. At 9:12 (Curfew + 10 minutes late + 2 minutes leeway = a worrywart mother’s expectation of ‘should be home by now‘) I called again, and again it went to voicemail. (Uh, oh.) After two excruciatingly long minutes, she called back. “Why are you late?” I asked. (Insert HUGE teenage sigh here, and in hindsight, how could you blame her?) “Mom. You told me not to talk on the phone while driving. Every time you call, I have to pull off the road to a safe area and call you back. If you would stop calling me, I would be home right now.” Oh. I hated to admit it, but she was right. Not only was she right, but she was having coffee at the local book store and not at the wild underage drinking party. After that, I was a little less nervous, but never completely calm, and I have the grey hair to prove it. As I watch her now, all grown up and a wonderful mother, I can see all the signs. Sweet Baby Max will be a teenager in about 12 1/2 years (the equivalent, in mother years, to the blink of an eye), and I’m here to tell you that the worrywart doesn’t fall far from the tree. |
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The Minnesota Farm Woman 
Oh my … you sound just like me…except I have lived through 3 teenagers. I still worry now even as they are adults when they don’t check in with me when traveling etc. Ahh a mother’s love and rightly a worrywort!
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Three? You must have completely white hair. I still worry, too.
Thanks for reading!
Chris
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