Who Ya Gonna Call?
If there’s something strange
in your neighborhood, who ya gonna call? Your Mother!
Monday-
CNN
Breaking News. Fifteen minutes ago, an out if control fire rages in downtown
Grabbing
the phone, franticly dialing my son’s cell number I break out in a cold sweat,
counting each ring until I hear Ryan, my firefighting-boy’s deep voice say, “Hi
Mom, what’s up?”
Instantly
relieved, I casually mention the high-rise fire. He patiently explains that he
is safe at home and that burning building is located a good eighty miles away.
We briefly chat and hang up.
Thursday-
The
first thing I do when I get home is make a beeline to the answering machine.
Caller ID displays that Cory left a message! With a racing heart and tunnel
vision, I start pounding every button with sweaty fingers. This stupid machine
needs to tell me why my middle child would call when he knew I was gone. What
happened, what does he need, is he okay? I hear his laughing voice. “Hey it’s
me. You haven’t called yet. A steam pipe
burst in the city this morning blowing a manhole cover two hundred feet in the
air. You’re probably wondering if I’m dead. I’m fine! Click.”
I
know what you’re thinking. I’m well aware that I may be a tad bit neurotic. To
be honest, I’m really okay with it. I believe it’s my job as a mother to make
sure my children are safe at all times. My son’s are in their thirty’s, but as
you see, they do humor me.
Actually,
I believe Ryan and Cory enjoy talking to me. Hey, I’m a freethinking flower
child from the 70’s. It’s all good. I’m
cool. I’m down with it. They can do whatever they want, they‘re adults for pity
sakes. I only ask, as their mother, “Let me know you’re alive”.
Sunday-
The
phone rings. “Hel-lo?”
“Hi
Mom!” a baritone singsong voice greets me.
“Ryan,”
I warily reply. “Why are you calling me so early? You always call on Sunday nights.”
“Oh.
Well, we have lots to do today,” he quickly explains, “and I wanted to get you
out of the way.”
“Excuse
me?” I snap back, continuing for several minutes with some fun loving
bantering.
Finished
with the phone call, I stop to self-analyze my silly behavior. I’m sure that my
children label me phobic, irrational or just plain wacko.
Well,
they may call me anything they like. As long as they CALL ME!
