My mom and I made an Ikea run this weekend. I’ve got a dorm now — Allison, if you’re wondering — and so I needed to look for dorm-friendly furniture. I’ve given up on my dream of fitting a LoveSac in my room, but a small couch seems doable if my roommate and I bunk our beds.

Now, granted, my mom still has her neuroses. In the past few weeks, she’s become particularly concerned about my towels. She ordered me a new set of towels about a month ago, and since then she’s asked me pretty regularly — at least once a week, if not more — about the quality of those towels.

“Sam, you know those towels I bought you?” Yes, Mom. I know.

“Are they big enough?” They’re big enough.

“And do you like the material?” Yes, Mom.

“How about the color? Are you fine with orange?” And so on.

I’m willing to recognize the importance of a good set of towels, but I can’t help but wonder if she’s focusing too closely on a relatively minor detail. Never mind the fact that I only recently learned how to do my own laundry. The towels, those are what really matters.

Part of me wants to come home for winter break with a new set of towels. If I walked in the door with a blue towel slung over my shoulder, God only knows the interrogation I’d be opening myself up to. I’m pretty sure it would give her a nervous breakdown. It makes for some fun speculation, even if I know I’d never have the huevos to actually do it.

Incidentally, we bought another couple of towels at Ikea. It was at her insistence, since apparently my endorsement of the previous set wasn’t glowing enough for her. To her credit, I do like these new towels better than the old ones.

It doesn’t stop at the towels, though. The fact that I’m leaving in September has even made it difficult to be in the same room with her when the television is on. Last week, she and I were talking briefly during a commercial break from So You Think You Can Dance. She stopped mid-sentence, at the sight of a preview for the next season of House. It said the show would be back in September. This wasn’t enough for her.

“When in September?” she asked me, anxiously. I didn’t know.

She was worried she wouldn’t get to watch the season premiere of House with me. She suggested that we set up a video chat during the show, so that I could be on-hand to explain anything for her that she might not understand. At the very least, I could walk her through the steps to work the TiVo.

God only knows what she’s going to do when Lost comes back. Even when I was filling her in, she could barely keep that story straight in her head.

I’ve been trying to put myself in her shoes, though, these past few days, and I think it’s helped me get a sense of why she’s acting so wigged-out. The way I see it, we’re both anxious about the next few months. Mine’s more of a practical anxiety. I’m concerned with things like finding my classes and doing my laundry — you know, the day-to-day stuff.

She’s worried about those things as well, I suppose, but she’s also got to look at the bigger picture. She’s been biologically conditioned to fear for my survival out in the wilderness. She has to know I’m clothed, fed, and away from dangerous predators. And also that I’m not in jail. In my nightmare scenario, I can’t figure out how to work the laundry machine on my floor. In her nightmare scenario, I’m passed out on the front lawn of a frat house with curse words written on my forehead.

Viewed in that context, her neuroses seem a little easier to cope with. Maybe she’ll still make a big deal every time another box of bedding comes in the mail (or continue to ask awkward questions about my roommate), but I think those are the eccentricities I can deal with. She’ll always have a degree of craziness to her, as I suspect most mothers do, but at least that will keep the next five weeks interesting.

With that said, she seems to have dropped the towel issue, so I guess I can call that progress. She’s worried, and I have reason to believe she’s going to miss me, but I feel like she’ll be able to talk herself off the ledge by the time I leave. She’s not there yet, but she’s getting there. It’s a pretty good start.

As we were driving back from Ikea, I reminded my mom that I was leaving in five weeks. After a moment’s pause, she told me it wouldn’t even seem like I was gone.

“I mean, you leave in September, but then they let you guys off for Halloween,” she said. “So it’ll only be six weeks until you’re back.”

I hope she doesn’t actually believe we get Halloween off. I’m going to have to break the news to her sooner or later.