I mean, it’s possible.

I have a vague plan in place. My plan is to retire in about 3 years, knowing full well we won’t be able to afford retirement.

A girl can dream. 

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As an anxious mother of adult children, I don’t want to worry all the time.

I hate worrying. I loathe working through anxiety every day. It’s exhausting.

If I had known when my kids were actually kids, that I’d worry more about them as adults, well..then..it probably wouldn’t have made a difference. I am who I am.

Now that they are all adults, brand new worry categories are being created all the time.

I can barely keep up.

At the moment, I am living through one of my least favorite events to worry through.

Our baby boy went to Detroit this weekend for a music festival.

It would take me an hour to list all the specific things I worry about when he goes off on one of these jaunts with friends. And that doesn’t even include all the fucking COVID worries.

Joey is completely understanding of my anxiety and knows I’m probably going to check in. That, however, doesn’t mean he isn’t going to be a little asshole about it.

Friday evening texts:

Me: Hey sweetie, let me know when you get there.

Joey: We are being inducted into a gang right now.

Me: Cool! Hopefully that includes facial tattoos.

Joey: They cost extra.

Joey: Can I get 30 bucks?

Me: Venmo?

Joey: They only take MoneyGram

Me: Dammit.

Saturday mid morning texts:

Me: So, did you get that tattoo then?

Joey: I got two.

Me: Is one of them a heart with the word mom in the middle?

Joey: Yeah, the artist was dyslexic so it just says “moo”.

Me: That made me snort.

Sunday afternoon texts:

Me: If the artist was dyslexic, wouldn’t the tattoo still say mom?

Joey: Yes, I thought about that later.

Me: Moo is funnier.

Joey: Agreed. Suspended disbelief to make the joke work.

So, as of right now, Sunday afternoon, I believe he is safe. He gets back home tomorrow. I’m not going to text again. I’ll see him when he gets here.

I mean, for all that is holy, I’m not a helicopter mom or anything. Mostly.

Sort of?

In any case, this works for us. I get proof of life and he gets to hang shit on his mother. Not going to lie, I mostly look forward to these exchanges because he always makes me laugh. The little asshole.