Though I’ve always had protective maternal instincts towards my younger siblings (half of whom are young enough to be my own kids, e.g., my youngest sister is 21 years my junior), and I feel confident in my ability to love and protect a child, I always secretly wondered and worried whether I’d have the guts to be a “mom” when it came right down to it. You know: that look, the tone of voice, the crossed arms that make kids sit up and pay attention. I’ve always been a pushover when it comes to other people’s kids. Until today.

A group of kids was messing around on our front sidewalk. They were throwing a dried up potted plant at each other (which I know they found on the neighbor’s driveway). Dirt was all over them and flying all over our sidewalk. It didn’t really bother me, but they did catch my attention. Then one of the boys took a stick and starting whacking the heck out of our young tree in the easement. Oops. Remember the scene in Raising Helen where the pregnant mom barges into a motel room to rescue her 15-year-old niece? I flew out the front door and went all Rambo Mom on the kids. I think I scared the daylights out of them. At one point, I wondered “who on earth is that lady talking? She must be a mom with that tone!” …until I realized it was me. Let’s just say those kids nicely replaced the potted plant to its rightful home and quietly walked home.

Of course, as soon as the door closed behind me and I was in the comfort of my own home, a huge wave of guilt washed over me. Heck, they were just being kids. They really weren’t hurting anything and a little marring on a young tree really wasn’t that big of a deal. On the other hand, I can’t fault myself too much. It was my first Mom Response — ever. And a part of me was completely content. I did it. I really did it. The “mom” in me is alive and well.