THEY’RE STILL MY CHILDREN

They may be middle aged,
But they’re still my children,
And even though they think they don’t need my advice, They need it,
Because who else is going to tell them:
Check your moles once a year with the dermatologist,
Order the mixed green salad instead of the fries,
Peeing before a long car trip is always wise,
And call your Aunt Rhoda—a phone call wouldn’t kill you.

They may be middle aged,
But I’m still their mother,
And even though they don’t want me to give them advice, I’m giving it,
Because who else is going to tell them:
Periodontal disease is no laughing matter,
Wipe between your toes when you’re drying your feet,
Fasten your seat belt even in the backseat,
And shave off the mustache—it makes you look like Hitler.

They may be middle aged,
But they still could listen
When I tell them which neighborhoods aren’t so safe to live in,
When I tell them that cabbage often causes gas,
When I tell them that when they serve cocktails outdoors, it’s best to use plastic, not glass,
When I tell them that e-mail thank-you notes aren’t thank-you notes,
When I tell them it never hurts to pay a compliment,
When I tell them that tax-free bonds are the way to go,

And when I tell them that even though
They may be middle aged,
They’re my children.
They’re still my children.
And I’m still their mother.

From her book I’m Too Young To Be Seventy, by Judith Viorst,