Whenever I’m in the grocery store and I see a child with his or her shoes untied, I have to physically restrain myself from bending down and tying that shoe. I have the same reaction when I see a child scrape their knee – “mommy mode” kicks in.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been a “mommy.” My sons all called me “Mom,” but the “mommy” was how I saw myself – I kissed their boo-boos to make them feel better. I banned peanut butter until they were in the third or fourth grade because I’d read the peanut butter could stick to the top of their mouths and they could choke.

I cut their sandwiches into squares or rectangles, depending on what they wanted that day, and I packed their lunch every single day from the time they were in first grade all the way to when they were a senior in high school.

It wasn’t that I was a super mom because I made plenty of mistakes, including sending them to school with stains on their shirts, hair that wasn’t brushed because I was tired of arguing with them or with unsigned papers the teacher needed but I’d forgotten to sign.

But when it came to giving advice, trying to solve their problems and wanting to know what was going on in their lives, I was 100 percent all in.

My sons are now grown men, and I wonder if I’m overstepping out of habit, still being “mommy” instead of “Mom.” The boys are probably too nice to tell me to stop fussing over them, but I see signs that I need to do so.

They seldom call to ask my opinion any more. They call their dad. He only gives out advice when asked and the boys call him for help with their cars and home repairs. They’ve moved on to man-to-man advice.

The advice I have to offer isn’t that important to them anymore. They don’t have scraped knees that need mommy’s kiss to make it better. They don’t need me to put the legs back on their Ninja Turtle guys and they know where to buy underwear.

In a way, it’s a relief not to have to constantly worry that they’re going to get hurt, lose their lunch money or won’t know what to do in a tough situation. They’ve all been through fender benders, have all had to look for a new job and have endured heartbreak and frustration.

And they survived, just like we all do.

From time to time, I have the selfish desire to go back to the days when they’d snuggle up in my lap, tuck their heads underneath my chin and let me rock them to sleep. I yearn for the nights of kissing them good night as they slept in their beds, a baseball mitt or well-loved panda bear tucked in next to them.

Then I see them buying their own homes, starting their own businesses, handling their finances and job situations and the pride I have in them for being such incredible men is overwhelming.

I asked my mom how she made the transition from mommy to mom, and she said she always knew her children were capable of making solid decisions. Life is all about learning as we go and to butt in is to rob children of the opportunity to grow into the adults they’re meant to be.

She’s right.

My mommy time is over, and it’s time to move into mom time.

And, who knows. I might discover, just as my mom did, that when I move into the “Mom” role, instead of having little children to fret over, I have three new adult friends.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.