“Hey, Ma,” I say jumping out of the shower with only one leg shaved and conditioner still clinging to my hair. “Do you know what I caught Tommy watching on YouTube?” she asks, skipping any greeting. “And can you tell me why a seven-year-old needs to use an iPad, anyway? The Wii, the DS and that awful SpongeBob aren’t enough?” As I switch the phone from one ear to the other, I don’t even bother to offer an answer. These questions, like most that my mom asks during our daily eight o’clock phone calls, are rhetorical. “Oh, and you’re out of chicken-and-stars soup. I can’t get the twins to eat anything but that condensed crap you buy.”

This wake-up call—part critique, part running commentary, part family gossip updates—has become a ritual since my mom started supplying afterschool child care. Why do I answer the phone? Well, she is my mother. And she does offer free babysitting. Or at least it seemed free. But the truth is she just keeps calling until I pick up. I’m pretty sure my number is on speed dial at the nurses’ station where she puts in the morning shift.

“Mommy’s coming,” I shout, hearing my 3-year-old twins wrestling over who gets to wear the Iron Man T-shirt to preschool. “Did they eat? Hopefully you gave them some fruit. Kids need fruit. Sammy was on the potty for half an hour yesterday.” As I pop the toaster strudels on plates and top them with red icing hearts, I say, “Yes, they’re having raspberries.” Not a complete lie. The strudels are raspberry-jam filled.

“You don’t have raspberries. What are you wearing to work?” she asks, switching to a new target. Struggling with my heels as I hop around trying to locate the boys’ library books, I tell her the blue Calvin dress.

“Hmm, don’t you think that’s a bit tight? Speaking of tight, did your husband pay the taxes yet?”

Time to go. “Mom, the bus is going to be here any minute, and I still have to check the kids’ backpacks.” As I hang up I hear, “You really should get more organized.” I would have time to be more organized if I didn’t have to slog through the morning with the phone attached to my ear, I think while carrying the twins like footballs to the school bus waiting in the driveway.

The next morning, watching at the door for the bus to arrive, I get the feeling something’s missing. Snacks are packed. I’m wearing two matching shoes. What is it?

Then it hits me—she didn’t call. What could have happened that the phone didn’t ring at 8:03? Panicked, I call her. “Mom, are you all right?”

I ask. “Yep, why?” she says nonchalantly. “You didn’t call me this morning. I was worried.” “Oh please,” she says. “I’m busy. I’m working, for God’s sake. I don’t always have time to talk you through your morning.”