As moms, there are many things at which we are good, things we do exceptionally well, such as multi-tasking from dawn to dusk, watching our children with eyes in the back of our heads, and folding laundry with our eyes closed.  We have the natural instinct to take care of our flock and all things involved with this flock from packing lunches for more years than I care to count, to waiting in the dark for their soccer-water polo-squash practices to finish, to watching in the rain, sun, sleet or hail any and all outdoor activities and games.

We are maternal.  We like to take care of people.  We can’t help it.   

We are fiercely protective, extremely loyal, and forever loving.  We were born that way.

But now that the chicks have flown the coop and the days of packing lunches and picking up from practices are over, the need to take care and manage All Things has diminished.  Almost vanished.

Suddenly there is more time for me.  A new concept to which it has taken months to grow accustomed.  In fact, I am still adjusting. It is almost an uncomfortable feeling.  And this is the part where we as moms are exposed for the one thing at which we are not good: letting other people take care of us.

And so, the story unfolds…

A few months ago, I found myself in a situation where I needed assistance.  As a habit, I don’t like to depend on other people or ask for help unless the situation is dire.  I strive to be an independent woman; I’m a product of the ‘80’s, after all.  But in this instance, although not dire, I needed a driver. 

I procrastinated until I no longer could procrastinate; I had put off some minor oral surgery for months but felt my tooth was operating on borrowed time.  During the procedure I would be under anesthesia.  You know the drill:  no food after midnight AND you need a driver. It was required.

I scheduled my appointment for 7 am as I can be a bit cranky for a prolonged period of time on an empty stomach.  My calendar was cleared, and I was literally prepared to ‘go under.’  All I needed now was a driver.

First choice was my spouse, and he agreed to be my designated driver, but the adventure, which required clearing his rather busy schedule, involved some minor grumbling on his part, so I gave him a pass. 

I’m blessed with many good friends but in this calendar year many of them have been struck with their own misfortune: a tree falling on their house, medical dilemmas of their own, or simply living too far away for a 6:45 am chauffeuring duty.  This detail would fall to a ‘bestie’ who gets up early, lives nearby, and would protect me with her life. 

I made the call a week beforehand, and she immediately said yes.  We went over the logistics several times before the actual date; time, location, responsibility.  Luckily, the procedure was taking place a mere mile from my house.

On the designated day, we giggled during the 6-minute drive to the periodontist’s office.  What would she do for the hour I would be ‘under?’ Would she knit, make to-do lists, see her chiropractor? What a big responsibility she was undertaking!  We were giddy, like two little old ladies.  Driving Miss Daisy and all the antics that go with it.

When we arrived, my friend came into the office with me and the mood immediately changed.  The periodontist’s staff was all business, taking the entire procedure very seriously.  My friend and I realized her minor driving duties had suddenly gone to a whole new level; she was, in fact, protecting me with her life.

As promised, I was finished in exactly an hour.  They run a tight ship and needed the space for the next patient.  I remembered nothing from those quick 60-minutes, I was in such a blissful state.  My friend was there to retrieve me and drive me home as promised, and I was quickly ushered out the side door and into the car.

What I didn’t anticipate was how loopy I would feel.  I kept repeating how I felt inebriated because I couldn’t quite focus yet somehow, I still maintained the ability to converse at a lively pace.

My sweet friend dutifully followed the staff’s instructions, safely getting me settled at home as I staggered into my house.  She saw me safely to the couch, got me the caffeine that I had sorely missed all morning, and tucked me in under a big furry blanket.  I sent her on her way because I couldn’t doze off with her watching over me, but she was carrying out her responsibilities, taking them seriously as any good mom would.

I had a drowsy afternoon, in and out of my drugged stupor.  This bestie checked in via text several times, and by dinner time, I was practically normal.

A few days later after making a speedy recovery as promised by the periodontist’s staff, I ran into my dutiful driver.  She complimented me on my post-op behavior, recalling how I remembered my garage code to get us into my house, how easily I was conversing with her on the ride home, and oh, how flawlessly I made it from the wheelchair into my car.

Stop right there, sister!  We locked eyes, my mouth slightly askew, as I processed this latest piece of information.  In shock, I stammered, “What wheelchair?”

I had no recollection of be escorted out in a wheelchair but if I had any wits about me at that moment, I’m sure I was arguing, stating that I was just fine, I could walk to the car.  However, this memory from three days prior slipped past me.

We chuckled and snorted, doubling over as I had no recall of being scooted out in a wheelchair for the five steps it would have taken me to walk to the car!  One mom taking care of another mom; absurd but necessary, and, appreciated.

It might be the beginning of something new for me, relinquishing responsibility and showing vulnerability.  How novel. How uncomfortable.  How unavoidable.

Even though our flock may no longer need us, as moms we still have much to give in terms of our maternal instinct, and as moms left alone in an empty home, we need our girlfriends more than ever.  Not just to drive us to doctors’ appointments but for a plethora of reasons, the biggest one simply being there for one another when we need a girlfriend the most, or maybe simply to be able to share a new memory, one in which we will forever giggle over “What wheelchair?”