Mullis: 'Worry about yourself, Mama' is easier said than done

Last month, I watched my 4-year-old nephew build a Lego car using a picture map. It was advanced work for his age and I told my sister I was impressed. She said the first time he built the car, she tried to help. After she dropped a few hints, he stopped her.

“Worry about yourself, Mama.”

We both howled with laughter, especially when my nephew looked up with a mischievous grin and repeated the phrase.

Naturally, we had to tickle him into submission.

Her story stuck with me in the weeks that followed, not only because it was funny, but because it was prophetic.

During those weeks, my son blew out the candles on his 18th birthday cake. He graduated from high school. He played his last high school baseball game – a heartbreaking loss in the regional semi-finals. He has gone to graduation parties and to college orientation and to who-knows-where. Sometimes I ask questions and most of the time the answers are shrugs or grins or “Nothing.”

Which basically means: Worry about yourself, Mama.

He crossed a magic line when he blew out those candles and threw the funny hat into the air. He’s an adult. Everyone knows that, even Uncle Sam, who sent him a selective service registration card. He can go to war, get married, and move to New Mexico, all without consulting me.

And, in case there was any lingering doubt, during his college orientation, a representative took us parents aside to remind us that the college would only share student information with the student.

In other words: Worry about yourself, Mama.

Easier said than done. After all, I’ve been worrying about this newly minted adult ever since I found out my nausea wasn’t food poisoning but motherhood.

That’s when I started eating breakfast, which I hated, because breakfast was good for the baby. I stopped drinking coffee, which I loved, because caffeine was bad for the baby. And when there was trouble and the doctor put me on bed rest, I went to bed but not to rest. I worried about every pain, not because it hurt me, but because it might hurt him.

And when he was 3 and wandered away in a crowded market, I pushed his baby sister into my mother’s arms and took off across the store, yelling his name and commandeering every sane-looking adult to help me. I found him hiding inside a clothing rack, where I stayed on my knees holding him for the longest time – so terrified, so grateful.

And when he went to school, I watched him walk away, worried a quiet kid would be lost in what appeared to be a jungle of noise. And when his teacher lost track of him on a field trip, I went on every subsequent field trip until he was 10.

And when a bad grade or a bad day or a bad game made him silent as the grave, I bided my time and weighed my words and waited for him to speak.

And while I waited, I worried.

And every time he drives away, I wait for his return. I tell him I’m watching TV or working, which I am, but really, I’m waiting.

Recently, I fell asleep waiting, only to wake up half past the time he said he would be home. No text, no call, no car pulling into the driveway. The panic of that crowded market returned.

Is he OK? Is he OK? Please be OK.

He was OK, just unofficially calling his own shots.

When he came home, we talked about adults being responsible with other adults. We talked about consequences. He nodded his head and took his consequences like a man, but the look in his eye was clear.

Worry about yourself, Mama.

Impossible, Son. Motherhood just doesn’t work that way.

Nicole L.V. Mullis is the author of “A Teacher Named Faith.” You can reach her at nlvm.columns@gmail.com or www.NicoleLVMullis.com.