Crank Call

A tiger never loses its spots, and a mother never loses her instinct to protect her kids.  Even though my ‘kids’ are now adults, this does not diminish the need to protect them from harm.  To a fault, I am like a lioness, ready at a moment’s notice to lend a nurturing hand or to pounce violently upon anything that might threaten them.

It was a shock to me—body and soul—when during the final moments of prep for our Passover Seder, my cell phone rang from an unidentified phone number.   All nerve endings jumped to attention as I dried my hands and reached for my phone, which is never far from my side.  Before I even said ‘hello’ I could hear the terrifying sound.   The screeching on the other end of the line conjured the image of my daughter in the midst of a very real threat.  It was the cry of violence, terror, pain, desperation.  How do you translate sobs and screams and gasps into coherence?  My knees went weak, my hands began to shake.  My friends who witnessed this in my kitchen later described how the color drained from my face, how my very being imploded from the fear.  I cried out, “Emily, Emily, Emily” until the phone line abruptly went dead.

I could barely breathe.  My mind raced in several directions at once.  I had last heard from her only an hour or so before.  She had been with friends, happy, planning to attend a campus Seder.  Then I ran through a laundry list of potential on-campus threats:  grades, boyfriend troubles, physical harm, random violence.  I stopped myself before I went too far.  Seizing control, I dialed her number, remembering that she sometimes borrowed someone else’s phone when hers lost its charge.  It was not uncommon for me to receive text messages from unfamiliar numbers that began, “mom, it’s Emily.”  I was unrelieved but not surprised when her phone rang and rang without answer.   I searched my contact list for alternatives; finding her boyfriend’s number I prepared to call him, wondering what I would say. 

Stopping me in my tracks, I then received a text message from the same unidentified number.  It said, without punctuation: Sorry that was my kid he took my phone and dialed a random number im very sorry.

I responded: Thank you for letting me know.  That was very upsetting.  His response:  I am very sorry for the inconvineance (sic).  My kid will be getting a lesson!

I was immediately relieved, but it hardly soothed the sting.  It was hours until I began to feel comfortable again.  Feeling the need for contact, I sent my daughter a message explaining what had happened; it was an incredible relief to hear from her (by text, of course) with a message that sounded and felt like it was really her.  But by the following morning, as I continued to replay the events in my mind, everything took on different meaning.  Had this been an episode of Law and Order, I realized, her return message could have been sent by anyone.  I still had no “proof of life.”

Violating the rules of college life (“don’t call me, mom; I’m busy”), I called my daughter directly, trying at least three times before she deigned to answer, in a sweet, sleepy haze—at noon.  I apologized for disturbing her, while inside I was melting with relief and joy that my baby was safe and sound.  She laughed at me for my silliness—a state with which she was well familiar.  On the other hand, I sensed that it was an opportune moment to heap on an extra dose of motherly love.

I am still angry at that nameless kid, who probably thinks his random act was a funny, victimless crime.  I doubt that his “lesson” balanced out the pain he caused, upending a holiday celebration and undermining a mother’s comfort in the well-being of her child. 

As for me?  I am a confirmed helicopter parent--unabashed and unapologetic for indulging my maternal instincts.  Sorry, kids!

Tomorrow's blog:  Sew Tired