The job description seems to keep shifting.

It seems like just last month I was teaching my children to use a zipper and having them practice saying their last name. This month, at age 84, I’m listening obediently while my children tell me what to say and what not to say, what to do and what not to do. They take turns asking: did you, will you, have you, are you?

And now they have started reminding me to use the bathroom before I go out.

If you are mothers of daughters you have probably already surrendered a lot of your choices to them and all of your privacy. If you are mothers of sons you have learned to discuss your concerns, no matter how fraught or complicated, in 10 minutes or less.

In the early years of motherhood we expressed everything with minute-by-minute care. We auditioned for smiles that meant happy, full, comfortable. Being a mother for most of us was straight forward. If we were lucky, our children had daily needs that were solvable. We knew who we were and what the task required.

As the years passed we squirmed under the multiple roles we had to fulfill: therapists, counselors, cheerleaders, teachers, mediators, social directors, homemakers.

Ah, but then the kids got new addresses. They went to college, or left to develop their professional selves. They went all over the place to discover who they were without being subjected to our interpretation.

And I suspect my sons began regarding me as being less consistent — a little more this, a little less that — a hint of that time to come when I might no longer be able to live independently.

You have to be old to grasp the subtleties of old. Unlike the commotion of physical changes that are served in gulps — visible changes like gray hair and wrinkles that make your skin resemble crumpled paper — we are more affected by the invisible internal changes. Those are the essential truths of age, served in the crumbs and nibbles that sneak into our once comfortably established self-image.

My age and my kids’ ages force me to update my self-image and to revise the practical definition of Mother. The changes make me feel like the main character in a silent movie who keeps running into walls where the doors used to be.

But time has no reverence for sequence when it comes to memories. From that vantage point, motherhood enables me to perceive my 60-year-old son as a child again. I remember Mother’s Days so long ago when we were all still home together and celebrated with kisses and handmade cards. My children’s crayon scribbled names took up more than half the space on the card.

Now with all of us living in different states, Mother’s Day is a phone call. My grandchildren are recruited to say happy Mothers’ Day. Loveyoubye. If we still get Mother’s Day cards they are all poetry and extravagant art. I prefer my old crayon scribbled cards. Less poetry, more personal.

Better yet, I want a long phone conversation exchanging what we’ve been thinking about, what we’re looking forward to, what we see as our accomplishments and challenges. But that is unlikely. Our reward will just have to be the pride and gratitude intrinsic with having raised these happy, loving, constructive adults.

Besides, mothers require no thanks for being who they are, and doing what they do. Try giving your mother a complement and she’ll say, “Yeah, yeah. I know. Put on some socks.”

Despite everything, including an undercurrent of confusion, mothers still need to think they are in charge. They want their children to believe their mothers know what to think and do. And when they’re around their families, they make a point of collecting snuggles and hugs at will.

So just put on your socks, say thank you and go with it.

CK Wolfson lives in Oak Bluffs.