I guess you could say I was a strict mother. I wouldn't allow football games where the dog was passed in midair for a first down. I limited my children's water intake after 8 p.m. to misting their tongues. I didn't allow dirty talk in my house like "driver's permit" or "steaks."

But the day the last one left home, all the rules changed.I give myself a manicure balancing a bottle of Jungle Red polish on the arm of the yellow chair in the living room. It is rather adventurous.

I leave clothes in the washer overnight and have to wash them again to get rid of the smell.

One day last week I was at the ironing board singing a duet of "New York, New York" with Liza Minnelli. Just as I raised my iron in the air to go into the big finish, "If I can make it there, I'd make it anywhere . . ." one of my sons appeared at the door.

"Why are you sneaking up on me?" I shouted.

"Sneaking! You can hear that stereo three blocks away. Do you want to go deaf?"

"It's meant to be played loud."

He turned it down. "Is that a Christmas tablecloth?"

"I'm a little behind in the ironing."

"You always told us to finish one job before we started another one."

This from a kid who can't remember his own phone number.

When he left, I reflected on what I had become. He was right. I was a mother who had fallen. I have turned into my children. I take phone messages and don't write them down. I run the car to "E" and never tell anyone. Just before dinner, I raid the refrigerator and ruin my meal.

I take food into the living room, open windows when the furnace is on, and take the TV listings into the bathroom and leave them there.

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I need a mother.

On the other hand, I had a mother who had more rules than a condo in a retirement community. If you kiss a dog, you'll die. If you wash your hair after 7 p.m., you'll get pneumonia. For every glass or saucer left under my bed, I would give birth to a rotten child.

It didn't take me long to find out how good decadence feels. Now when my husband yells, "You better throw out those leftovers - garbage pickup is tomorrow," I say, "In a minute." It never gets done.

If he keeps that up, I may get my own apartment.

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