Like almost all of America, it’s hot here, in the sweltering nineties, but that’s typical for July in North Carolina. Thankfully, January Mary did July Mary a favor and booked a few days in the mountains for this past weekend.

We went to Blowing Rock, NC. My introduction to Blowing Rock was through the Mitford series written by Jan Karon. If you are ever in a bad place, feeling sad and without hope, read these books. I promise they change everything. The characters and setting make you want to move to Mitford.

It turns out I was not the only person who wanted to move to Mitford, Karon’s fictional village. The author lived in Blowing Rock, and readers assumed the books were based on her hometown.

Rumor has it, readers flocked to Blowing Rock to experience the Mitford magic. I’ve heard traffic jams occurred as people slowly drove by Karon’s home. They say she had to flee her sweet village so it could return to its quiet state.

It is as quaint as the picture she paints in the book. The flowers are extraordinary. They must love the mountain air, because they bloom like I’ve never seen before. It’s a place untouched by time. The architecture, scenery, hiking trails, shops and restaurants make it a great weekend getaway, and it was perfect for our family trip with Ethan, 27 and Thad, 25.

When I introduced my last post on social media, I mentioned my friend from when I lived in Chapel Hill, Sally Maslansky. Sally is a therapist and had incredible insights and extremely valuable advice.

She would pop over to my house, sit at my kitchen counter, open a cold can of Diet Coke and completely blow my mind with her wisdom. When I shared her thoughts with other friends, I called myself “discount Sally.” You had to go to her and pay for the personalized advice, but I was happy to share all she gave me.

One of my favorite “Sallyisms”, which didn’t apply to me at the time but does now, is “treat your adult children the way you would treat a house guest. If you wouldn’t tell a houseguest to pick up their towels, don’t tell your adult children.”

It’s so simple and so brilliant! I use it all the time. Well, almost all the time. This weekend, there may have been violations.

I can’t help it. They might be fifty years old, and eighty-year-old me is going to ask, before we go anywhere, “did you brush your teeth and put deodorant on?” I’ve been saying this since they were twelve years old. I don’t even know I’m saying it when I say it. Dutifully, they answer. Sometimes they are proactive: “I already brushed my teeth and put deodorant on.” Yes, this occurred this past weekend.

My kids call me a food pusher. I am. Their friends agree with them. I am like a waitress sharing specials, “We’ve got pizza. We’ve got ribs. Do you want something light like chips? Apple and peanut butter?” It’s never ending. I can’t stop until they are eating. If you came to my house, I would offer you something to eat and drink. If you said “no,” I would respect that. Not with my kids though.

This weekend, we set out for a short “hike,” more like a walk. Following our stroll around a lake, Ethan and Thad were going to go on a more treacherous hike to the top of a mountain.

I don’t know if this is a male thing, or a twenty-something thing, but my kids never need anything. They are “good.” “I’m good” they say. “We’re good. We don’t need anything,” they insist as I approach them with arms filled with sunscreen, bug spray and water bottles.

This is when my salesmanship/horror stories start. “A brown recluse spider can eat your flesh,” I tell them. “People have died from dehydration on short hikes.” Zika virus. Blistering sunburns. Rocky Mountain spotted fever. I sold Ethan on the bug spray.

Then I began to work on Thad about eating. “You’ll be hungry!” I tell him. I brought an insulated backpack. When he saw that he agreed to bring some food and drinks.  I added chips to the bag. He said he didn’t want them. I told him they might be the key to his survival.

I would say and do none of these things with an adult guest. If you don’t want sunscreen or bug spray, food or drink, fine. If you get eaten by bugs or had to go to the hospital for a hydrating IV, it’s not my problem.

If something were to happen to Ethan or Thad though, well, that would be my fault. I know. It makes no sense. They wouldn’t in any way blame me. The hospital wouldn’t blame me. I would blame me.

Maya Angelou told this great story once. She wanted to explain motherhood, and this story perfectly describes it for me. She had a son who was in his mid-twenties at the time. He was in Africa. She was in the United States. He got into a car accident. She felt responsible. She felt if she was a better mother, he wouldn’t have gotten into the accident.

It doesn’t make sense, unless you’re a mother.

I don’t know how to shed this irrational sense of responsibility. Both boys live completely independently, in their own apartments, pay their own bills and buy their own groceries. And yet, I still send them little pieces of information I feel they need. Last week, I shared a post someone wrote about how if you are lost, and your cell phone battery is dying, change your voicemail to say where you are. Neither of them replied to this, so I made sure to discuss it with them in person.

Sally’s advice, while profound, misses the vulnerability of being a mom. (I suppose this applies to dads too.) I have to say these things. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to them. I know it, because I know parents who have lost their children, and their lives are very different from before. They are living with a pain I can’t let my mind imagine.

The myth of adult children is, they are always your children. The world has the luxury of seeing them as adults. You might stop asking them about their personal hygiene, because that isn’t really what you are worried about anymore. Just be okay. Get home safely. Come to us if you are suffering. We can get help. Just stay alive. Just stay alive.