We have a saying in this house when a situation turns completely around on its head: The Worm Turns.

And, the worm has done a total 180 recently, in relation to my daughter leaving for college.

You’re all aware of just how closely I was imbedded into my daughter’s life.

I can admit this now: it was a tad unhealthy.

But over this past summer, something happened. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but I simply…disengaged.

h, not completely, of course, that would take an act of God, but believe me – there was absolutely a shift in my invasiveness.

This change in my maternal barometer began when she turned 18 years-old…about the same time she decided to test boundaries she has never been brave or stupid enough to tempt before.

In her self-centered, faux-adult brain, she really thought that being 18 meant she was actually 25 and no longer required the following things: a curfew, explanations, a skirt below her knee…or at least bigger than a Band Aid, and the answer to the omnipresent: “What time will you be home?”

So to say this period was a test of my strength would not be inaccurate.

But, I did something I never usually do: I shut up.

Listen, if she considered herself an “adult” and thought she should be left alone, than by God, I will pretend to leave her alone.

I didn’t call or text to check-up, I did not follow her in any way, shape or form (Dr. Phil killed that surveillance technique for me, anyway), and I did not HOVER.

She was caught so completely off-guard by my non-Maria-esque behavior, she didn’t know whether this was the Twilight Zone and I would rip my face off to reveal another person entirely underneath...or nirvana.

Before I could blink – it was time for her to flee straight to the freedom of collegiate paradise.

I thought this would’ve been harder for me. But guess what? It wasn’t! I didn’t even help her pack. I made a suggestion of things she considered ludicrous for dorm life – like pencils and socks – and that was the last suggestion I made. We all bundled into the car and off we squealed en route to her declaration of emancipation!

Or so I thought.

We moved her in and she looked a little lost, I must say.

She started putting her possessions in those itty bitty drawers they allow for the inmate’s possessions and she realized – huh – she needed pencils and socks. Who needs Mama now?

I thought so.

I drove to Wal-Mart to retrieve all the items I told her she needed.

She knows I was right, I will always be right and she will SO miss me telling her I am always right. Trust me.

We left her in her sad, cinder-blocked dorm room and I’ll admit, I did cry.

But, on the way home again, an amazing occurrence presented itself. I felt a little unencumbered. A little lighter.

Why was no one fighting in the car?

Why was there no pinching and screeching about how someone was inappropriately chewing, sneezing or breathing?

Why was no one telling me I need a hairstyle…or actually…just style?

This was so strange. So…peaceful.

Of course I miss my daughter. I mean, she is the fruit of my loins…and by fruit I mean a casaba melon and by loins I mean 31 hours of said melon wedged “there”…but I must say, it has been easier to move on than I ever dared hope.

We returned home and I opened the door to her room. I thought the scent of her perfume and anti-establishment would make me sad.

The only thing that made me sad was the condition of the new rug, graffiti on the door and an avalanche of dirty clothes, silverware and sticky coffee cups cleverly shoved in the recesses of her closet.

I asked her brothers if they missed her at all, but they couldn’t hear me over the sander and wall paper stripper. This room was no longer my daughter’s but half way to belonging to son-who-always-shared-a-cell.

He stripped wallpaper until his fingers bled and my daughter’s trough of swine waste has been relegated to the attic.

She’ll be so happy up there with no air conditioning and no heat. She’ll be so happy she may decide that her life with me was not such an atrocity after all!

She’s been gone over a month now and guess who calls and texts me every single day?

That’s right. Little Miss I Thought I Hated You, that’s who.

Every time she calls, I hold the phone away from my ear and mouth to my husband: “…is this the same child who packed her bags and wanted to move into the garage, squirrel’s nest and dirt floor be damned?”

Yes, it was her all right.

I think she’s finally forgiven me for loving her too much and I do believe she misses me.

She misses her Mama!

She said it would never happen. Oh, but it has.

The worm has turned.

The worm has turned a few times and I think by Thanksgiving, that worm is going to turn and crawl right back into the loving and (untoned) arms of her (always right) mother.

Nirvana, indeed.

About the Author

Maria Heck covers for the Times Leader. Reach her at or .

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The worm

Mosquitoes and warts

Back when I was there

Attention deficit

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Maria’s Summer Survival Guide

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