Terminal Motherhood

I realized today that this is it.  This is how I'm going to die.  I'm going to be a mother until I expire from this world and pass on to that great big playground in the sky.  Hopefully I won't always be trying to make dinner with someone's arms wrapped around my legs while their face screams into my rear end in desperation for a cookie.  I'm praying that someday they figure out how to transform their own transformers, there-by freeing up years of my life.  But I know that one day I'll look back while they are rolling their eyes and sighing at having me speak to them in public and I'll miss the simplicity of hearing them say "Mom. Mom. Mom..." continuously for 15 minutes straight.   No matter what stage of life we enter, I will always be mothering them.  Forever.

Days like today, I start to think about the consequences of my actions.  Things I do today will forever alter the future of dozens of people.  What if I'm too lenient and I end up with sons who are lazy, shiftless hobo's?  Or worse yet, what if I'm too strict with the result of pushing them away until they rebel against all reason and wind up in prison?  It keeps me up at night, trying to figure the balance required in raising well adjusted humans fit for society.  There are some behaviors that I'm not sure I can ever alter in our boys, no matter the degrees of discipline or leniency.  For instance; I wonder if Jack will always chant what he wants until he beats down the very spirit of the person opposing him.  Someday I'll probably get a phone call from the future Mrs. Jack Everett that begins with "I'm going to kill him if he doesn't stop saying 'chocolate cake and a trip to Maui' ".  It takes a high level of patience and a good imagination to withstand 45 minutes of hearing nothing but "dead dog and chips, dead dog and chips, dead dog..." (dead dog means hot dog in Jack-ese, in case you hadn't guessed. We do not eat dead dogs at our house. Just hot ones.) and I spend a lot of time on a deserted island in my head when he goes into one of his rants.
And then there's Mitch.  Oh, Mitch.  Will he always think boxing is a form of endearment?  Will we be required to wear protective gear at his wedding?  I picture his bride as a solid girl who can take a hit, and whose father is a dentist willing to do on the spot repair work.  One of the Everett catch phrases is: "Hit him back!", but no one ever does.  People are squeamish about hitting a baby for some reason.  They wouldn't be if they lived with a two foot Sugar Ray.

When I think of my children as adults, I realize that even when they are over 6 ft. tall and have children of their own, I will still be worrying about them, praying for them and loving them day and night.  I will probably find myself laying in bed at 4 am, wondering if Jack has made his yearly appointment for a physical, or if Mitch has found his wallet yet.  I will be doing what I'm doing now until the moment I die, which will be a lot sooner than the 90 years I had envisioned if Mitch doesn't stop riding his tricycle down the porch stairs.  That kid is going to give me a heart attack.