Because I’m an adult, I could decide one morning in VA to drive that afternoon to the family’s home in NY.

I could

  • rent a Toyota Corolla for $13/day from
  • stop by the airport to pick up the car, stop by my office to pick up my notes, stop by the bank to make a deposit
  • forgive myself for running late
  • forgive that driver who called me a b, when I’m pretty sure she was the one who cut me off
  • drive 4 miles out of my way to stop at a Chik-Fil-A
  • pay $.50 additional for a whole wheat bun
  • pay with my debit card
  • identify that odortastic smell in the car as the residue of cigarette-smoke-plus-chemical-cleaners-used-in-futility
  • drive with my windows down and my AC on
  • blast religious talks so loud that at tolls I’m competing with bass-thumping convertibles
  • travel the I-95, to the NJ Turnpike, through the Holland Tunnel, and down and around Brooklyn to Queens to the family’s home, with confidence and aplomb, despite making false turns and hitting serious BQE/workday evening traffic
  • surprise my younger sisters at their mid-week religious young women’s activity
  • say no to free brownies
  • give four people rides home
  • chat with Joanna, though I didn’t know her and though I had a headache
  • graciously avoid other guests lurking around our home
  • coordinate with Mom and Manfriend about our next day’s schedule and Manfriend’s plan to join us
  • be so grateful for, so excited to see Manfriend
  • brush and floss, change into my pajamas, put on a new hoodie, and take 1000 mg of ibuprofen
  • crawl into my mom’s bed and move my feet around to heat up the cold sheets
  • wait for Mom patiently and without crying.  Mostly.

And, when Mom finally came in, saw me, smiled and said, “Oh,” and then lay down to comfort me, I could stay in her arms until we both fell asleep.

Because I am an adult, I could still need my mother.