My mom worries. Always has and always will.

She’s worried at least for as long as I’ve been old enough to notice. Admittedly, I noticed she’s a worrier in general LONG before I realized I’ve been a primary cause of at least 30% of those worries. But not all of them.

My mom has an innate ability to conjure an absolute worst-case scenario of any situation and then start worrying about it, unlikely as it is.

Her mind is constantly flipping through each family member. Fortunately, once my nephews were born, she had grandkids to add to the mix, thus spreading her concern among more people.

But I’m the one who snuck out the fire escape at our Jersey Shore guest house while in high school and college. (Hey, if you’re gonna give a teenager with a curfew a room with a ladder leading down the side of the house, they’re going to use it.

I’m the one who calls home from Key West at 2 a.m. to say I’m about to have emergency surgery for a ruptured appendix. I’m the one who called home to report two broken ankles (yes, at the same time), one of which needed surgery.

I’m the one who stayed out all night during a college summer without calling and then walked home at dawn (still very drunk), only to have my dad pass me on his way to work, turn around and drop me off at home without saying a word until he got home that night.

When I entered the house, my mom’s concern for my whereabouts turned to sympathy for me when I told her dad knew I’d been out all night, had in fact brought me home.

I had screwed up, all me. Entirely

But as usual, it was my parents who had suffered, worried, second-guessed themselves and their parenting — all because their daughter had been playing drinking games and making bad decisions all night (while hanging with an old boyfriend my mom couldn’t stand. Spoiler alert: She was totally right about him.)

My brother and I were  blessed with the most supportive, involved and loving parents anyone could imagine (despite my high school rants when I was convinced there was something wrong with my overprotective dad and repeatedly suggested that my mom “have him tested.”)  

But that’s neither here nor there. My dad’s still crazy. And my mom still worries. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

I love them both more than anything, but this column’s for mom. (Especially, because, unlike my dad, she has NEVER asked nor demanded that she be mentioned in a column.)

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you (both)!

Mandy Miles drops stuff, breaks things and falls down more than any adult should. An award-winning writer, reporter and columnist, she's been stringing words together in Key West since 1998. "Local news is crucial," she says. "It informs and connects a community. It prompts conversation. It gets people involved, holds people accountable. The Keys Weekly takes its responsibility seriously. Our owners are raising families in Key West & Marathon. Our writers live in the communities we cover - Key West, Marathon & the Upper Keys. We respect our readers. We question our leaders. We believe in the Florida Keys community. And we like to have a good time." Mandy's married to a saintly — and handy — fishing captain, and can't imagine living anywhere else.