I am the older sister. Maybe enough said. I am responsible—too responsible. I had to be the driver of the car that arrived home at or before curfew in high school, so I was accustomed to being the nail biter. Would baby sister round up easily at the arcade to make it home in time? Being a responsible mother came naturally for me. This role is now so ingrained, it is hard to let it go.
Except for when dear younger son kicks in. I found it delightful today when he nervously pointed at the fuel light on in my car. He gestured frantically at a nearby gas station since I was on the phone. (Wow, so that’s what it feels like for someone else to worry about things!) He loves to go to church youth on Wednesday nights, so this evening he kept a vigilant eye on his watch. He ate a quick dinner, took my plate (wait!), put a few things away, changed clothes and announced he would be in the car. Right on time! Hmm, I could really get used to letting him pick up some of this “responsible” stuff. I think I am getting a little too old for it.
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