My mother, for as long as I can remember, has always been a life weather watcher. She knows more about the weather than Dick Goddard, even with no formal education. And in our family, it has been those forecast alerts that have dictated every family event.
Growing up, I remember watching the thermometer, we couldn’t head to my aunt and uncle’s lake until the mercury rose to a balmy 80 degrees. If we even considered swimming a degree lower than 80, according to my mother, we would likely catch pneumonia. As a child, I was certain the school superintendent kept my mother’s number on speed dial. I knew it wasn’t the superintendent that decided on school closings, it was my mother. She told us when school would be cancelled before we even turned the radio on.
As a teenager, you can’t imagine all the prayers I sent God, begging for no rain, sleet, snow etc. on nights of school athletic events, if we were ever to have a chance of attending. You see my mother took no risks when it came to the safety of her babies.
As a young married woman, I remember trying to explain to my new husband the need to take a different route home, so not to pass my parent’s house, when returning from a night out on a snowy evening. I didn’t want to explain to him that my mother was probably standing at the picture window checking out car headlights.
My mother was notorious for not only reporting the weather to us via a phone call, but also advising us on the one exception that would permit us to risk the elements. For example, a medical emergency was legit if we phoned her first so that dad and she could escort us in their SUV. However, dinner and a movie out would warrant an explanation for ignoring her advice and driving in treacherous conditions.
You may ask where that leaves me now that I have entered into middle age. Well this January’s Arctic blast brought a series of phone calls from my mother, all expected. The first was to inventory our emergency supplies. Do we have toilet paper and milk? The second was to warn us that frostbite could occur just from looking out the window. The third was to remind us that she had a generator and plenty of blankets, if we needed to hunker down as one big family unit to survive.
All subsequent phone calls, I am sure, were just to check that we were following the game plan. Does all this sound crazy?
I’m sure it does. My mother is crazy, crazy when it comes to caring for her babies (middle aged adults). No matter how old we get, or she gets, to her, our well-being is her mission. I love that about my mom.
In an age where neglect and selfishness are prevalent, my mother’s steadfast love and mother’s instincts prevail. So mom, keep on calling and know that I will rarely follow the complete plan, but I love knowing you have one.