He still needs me, but sometimes you'd never guess

After my all-too-brief visit with Scott over Christmas, I realized there are several different ways to tell.

First, there's the name game. When I rattle off roll call because I can't remember which kid I really want, I used to start at the top and work my way down. "Hey, Scott Ben Buzz whichever one you are."

Now, I tend to say "Ben Buzz and Strange Kid Who Only Shows Up On Holidays whichever one you are."

Then there's the favorite food scavenger hunt. About six months after Scott moved to Nashville, I noticed a strange phenomenon in our refrigerator's dairy drawer. There was still cheese left when I brought in the next week's groceries. In our house, the only thing that vanished faster than chocolate was cheese -- but only when Scott was home.

The dishing-up designator was more gradual. Before Scott became a vegetarian, and before he discovered Life Outside of Family, we all used to actually eat together on a regular basis and it was an automatic pilot thing -- five plates, five forks, five glasses ... and curses on those who make canned cinnamon rolls only in groups of eight. The change to four plates, forks, glasses and evenly distributed cinnamon rolls came so gradually, we hardly noticed. But when he came home to eat with us on Christmas Eve (stuffed shells, yum! There are benefits for cooking for a vegetarian) I had to remind myself to set out the extra plate.

Giving a child up to college, another city, a girlfriend and his own life is certainly easier than losing a child to death, a nightmare I never want to suffer, but it isn't pain-free. I never wanted to be one of those clingy moms, calling and nagging my absent son, whining about the fact that he only calls me when he needs something, so I try to mask it with humor.

But sometimes, in the careless and cavalier manner of young adults focused on their own lives, they really do hurt us. Although we had a wonderful Christmas Eve and day with Scott, we didn't hear a peep from him on New Year's Eve or New Year's Day. I don't think I realized how much it bothered me until two days later, when he finally called.

He needed gas money to get back to Nashville.

Have you ever seen a gasoline explosion. All is calm and quiet, and suddenly, Whoosh! Let's barbecue a buffalo in 5 seconds flat!

I barbecued a buffalo. I played the guilt card -- in all seriousness for once, instead of that passive-aggressive teasing I usually use, and I exploded.

Then, being a true Mom, I felt guilty about making him guilty.

I can't win.

Sitting across from me in the newsroom is Sadie, our expectant mom and Life and Leisure editor. We talk a lot about what she's about to face and I try to give her tips -- or at least warnings I wished someone had given me. The first thing I want to tell her is -- labor is only the first time your kid will really hurt you. It won't be the last, but hopefully, it will be the worst. Incubating the little dears causes stretchmarks on the body, but raising them causes stretchmarks on the soul.

Then I'll tell her to do as I say and not as I do -- toughen up. They don't mean to hurt you, they just do sometimes.

Even though I've been beating myself up for getting so mad at Scott, my husband tells me, "It's a good thing," in his best Martha Stewart impersonation.

"If you don't tell him when he hurts you, he'll keep doing it without meaning to," he said.

I remembered once when I was very young, about 4 or 5, and my mother abandoned her beehive hairdo for a short pixie cut. I was startled by her appearance and had pretty much the same reaction I had 42 years later when my newly clipped dog emerged from the groomer's. I laughed.

It was the first time I can recall seeing my mother cry, and it hurt me then. It still hurts when I think about it and I learned at that tender age to be careful with my mother's feelings. (That lasted until I was a teenager, then had to be re-learned when her curse came true -- I had kids just like me.)

So maybe it was a good thing my heart said "Ouch" loud enough to be heard.

Of course, there is a plus side to the fact that my oldest son only calls me when he needs me.

He still needs me.