Not That I Worry, Mind You

So.

To cap off Spring Break 2016, The Princess and some friends decided to spend the day in Chicago.

Now mind you, this would be the same group of girls who, a couple of weeks ago, were having trouble deciding whose car would make it to Des Moines (2 hours away) for the Girl's State Basketball Tournament, and who would most likely be able to stay awake to drive home.

Not that I worried at all about three high school girls (granted they're all 18... just barely) driving the nearly three-and-a-half hours to Chicago's Navy Pier (which, by the way is located in downtown Chicago) and Shedd Aquarium, or driving the nearly three-and-a-half hours back home late at night (when most people like to sleep).

Now mind you, earlier in the week, when I suggested we go to Chicago to the aquarium, the children rolled their eyes so hard I was afraid they would sustain brain damage.

Not that I worried. At all.

Now mind you, this would be the same Princess who whines if you do not respond instantly to her calls or texts, but who, after setting out for downtown Chicago doesn't see the need to call or text her mother.

Not that I worried. Because obviously I knew that:

A. They were having too much fun to call;

B. There are no cell towers in the Greater Chicago Metropolitan Area;

C. All three girls' cell phone batteries died on the three-plus hour drive there;

D. Their cell phones didn't work at the bottom of the Chicago River, where their bodies were no doubt sinking after the kidnappers tossed them off one of the bridges. Although I will admit, cell reception is probably crap at the bottom of the river.

Now mind you, being a typical Mom I did text her late in the afternoon just to:

A. Embarrass her.

B. Make sure they made it safely to wherever they wound up after telling me they were going to Chicago;

C. Check cell reception at the bottom of the Chicago River;

D. Let the kidnappers know that I was on to them;

Not that I worried. Because in response to my text asking “How's it going?” she did send a return text saying “Good.” Which is exactly the reply you would expect:

A. When a group of teenage girls is having fun;

B. When that's all the time you have time to type as you're sinking to the bottom of the Chicago River;

C. When kidnappers let their victims send a brief, non-committal message to assure their worried parents that they are still alive;

D. When you're sitting in the Customs Office at the Canadian border because you got lost on your way to Chicago from Eastern Iowa.

Now mind you, I could have called one of the other girls' parents, but:

A. I like to keep my own particular brand of crazy hidden as much as possible, and there was a slim chance that I was over reacting.

B. Nope, that's pretty much it, although...

C. They are 18 and, unlike me, actually know how to use the navigational systems on their phones.

Not that I worried and stayed up half the night waiting for them to come home, because:

A. I decided long ago that the key to surviving teenagers is to sleep as much as possible when you have the chance, because once the call comes from the police department/ hospital/ Navy Seals searching the bottom of the Chicago River/ customs officers at the Canadian border, there will be no more sleep;

B. I could fall asleep standing in line with kidnappers at a crowded customs office on the Canadian border;

C. I slept fitfully for half the night, until I heard a ghostly voice whisper “Mom, I'm home,” then I slept fitfully for the other half of the night wondering if I actually heard something or if it was just an example of that weird “we're so close/beyond the veil” phenomenon that would end up with me being portrayed by a tired-looking actress in a dramatization on some cable TV show;

D. All of the above PLUS the cat woke me up at 6:30 on a Saturday morning, again, so that I could watch him eat after checking to make sure that The Princess, was indeed, peacefully sleeping in her bed.

Now mind you, it is 9 p.m. on a Saturday night and The Little Prince isn't home yet.

Not that I'm worried.