Now that I am a widow, it seems less cozy to be snowed in, in Maine, without my personal bear to hug, fuzz and all.

“Come down for the winter, Mom,” my older daughter Cassie says.

Head to North Carolina to spend time with Cassie, her husband, and my teenage grandchildren of 14 and 16? Yes, please.

“We’ll take care of you,” she adds.

Um, take care of me? Oh, these cute kids nowadays.

Maybe she’s concerned because I ask her the same questions every day on the phone, but that’s mostly because I’m watching the news at the same time. And filing my nails. And my tax returns. And adjusting the heating pad.

All I know is that when I finally arrive there, they help me in with my bags, and somewhere between my car and the guestroom, I’m pretty sure I hear the words “rest home.”

“Did you say rest home?” I ask.

“Oh, no,” Cassie says. “I think I said ‘guest room,'” and she looks quizzically at my ears. “Is your hearing OK, Mom?”

Nothing more is said until the next night.

“Did you tell your mom about Golden Acres?” Cassie’s husband Paul asks her.

“Uh, I’m right here,” I say.

No matter how beautifully they describe it (“… your own apartment as long as you want … smooth transition to assisted-living, then …”) and no matter how glorious it sounds to have a rec center nearby (bingo games and a café – really?), I know where they’re going with this mom-needs-a-rest-home thing.

So, in a tremendous about-face, I decide I will, in fact, take care of them. I am not so far gone that I can’t take care of myself – plus a little extra.

I start by doing their dishes. Folding their clothes. Counseling around the hormonal ups and downs – the parents, not the kids. Before long, I am feeling, in my own mind, totally in charge of not only myself, but also anything else asked of me. And I take this very, very seriously.

Here, in their Mr. Rogers Upwardly Mobile Neighborhood, ferocious guard dogs rule. Bentley, the family pup, is tiny, so they’ve installed an elaborate security system.

It took me weeks to learn it: Enter garage door code. Find hidden key. Reset system. Re-hide key. Wait to see if police will show up to arrest me.

I get it. They don’t want intruders.

To me, the most valuable things in the house are, in no particular order, Cassie, her husband, my grandkids, and my latest Archie comic, with Archie’s new “look.” Quite sexy, I must say.

All this brings us to late on a Thursday night.

The kids are exhausted from a full day of school, 47 activities (each), dinner and homework, and the house quiets down. Except for me, a late-night CNN junkie, accompanied by Archie. And chocolate. For energy, in case I need to be a hero.

By 1:30 a.m., I’ve memorized all debate sound bites and witnessed Veronica manipulating Archie, so I snuggle under the covers.

That’s when I hear it.

A constant, unrelenting, rhythmic buzz.

Remember that part about being a hero? Maybe not so much.

Although, if my own little chicks are being threatened, I am Mama Bear, Dawn Quixote, Menopause-Xena-the-Wrinkled-Warrior-Princess. I will guard my clan.

Heart racing, I quietly open my door.

The buzz is louder now. I wonder why the others aren’t alerted, but then again, they’re sleeping, doors closed.

I need a weapon. I grab my phone and the nearest object – a newspaper. In case I have to read someone to death.

I’m trying to control all bodily functions and also keep breathing as I head down the stairs to confront the monstrous intruder.

Halfway down, I realize this may be a job too big for me.

I sneak – OK, run – back to my room, quietly close the door, and call for backup. Oh, I’ll definitely go first, and brave whatever befalls me. I just want someone to be nearby to call the coroner.

“Cassie,” I text. “I hear a noise. Going to check it out.”

That is code for, “Wake up your husband and tell him to save us.”

I know she’s asleep. But at least she’ll know what happened to me.

Wait. She’s texting me back.

“Thanks.”

Thank God. I am not in this alone.

“It’s good to know you’re willing to put your life on the line to protect us …”

My eyes fill with tears.

“… from my electric toothbrush.”

Kathy Eliscu, who lives in Westbrook, is the author of the novel, “Not Even Dark Chocolate Can Fix This Mess.” She credits her way of looking at the light side of life to her mother, the late Marge Eliscu, whose “Coffee Break” humor column ran for two decades in the Maine Sunday Telegram.

Beverley Sweet with her daughters, from left, Debi Vondras, Diane Atwood, Cathy Frederick, Becky Shaw, Mary Spring. She also has three sons.