Be careful.

It’s a mother’s job to be cautious — and her duty to keep the world safe.

Look both ways when you cross the street.

Mothers have had an “alert” system long before George W. and his Homeland Security guards.

Don’t talk to strangers.

It starts the moment a woman finds out she’s pregnant — the caution flag is raised. A mother never lets her guard down.

Are you paying attention?

I remember when I was expecting my first child. I was obsessed with having a healthy baby. My husband and I practiced Lamaze breathing and I delivered — a nine-pound baby — without any pain medication — something I ended up doing three times. I endured labor pains — 25 hours worth on the first try — believing I had done the right thing for my baby.

“So can I have the epidural now?”

When my little ones were learning to crawl and walk, I made sure they were padded and penned and watched over them like a hawk.

Don’t put that in your mouth.

I tried to protect them from even the tiniest bump or tumble.

Slow down, you’re going too fast.

There’s something to be admired in a three-year-old who senses no danger, no fear, no boundaries. They trust implicitly that Mommy and Daddy will keep them from harm. Adults with that sort of mindset are labeled risktakers or wild or crazy.

Wash your hands.

By the time my boys reached 10, they’d been bandaged and stitched a multitude of times. Bruised on the outside but raring to go on the inside, they could not be contained in a safe playpen. They looked for thrills and I looked for the brakes.

Both hands on the wheel.

They can all drive now — legally. All three make me nervous when they drive — only because I’m no longer in control of the situation.

Each time they drive off on their own, I say a little prayer that St. Christopher will ride the brake and grab the steering wheel when he needs to.

Come to a complete stop.

When you’re a young parent, you’re in protective mode every minute of the day. It’s overwhelming. That “high alert” doesn’t diminish over time — it moderates and becomes part of us — like breathing.

Wear your seatbelt.

The phone call will come one night — 10 minutes before curfew. The voice will be shaky and you’ll know.

“I’m not hurt — but the car’s wrecked.”

The car doesn’t matter.

All you want is to touch your little girl’s face, see her smile and squeeze her close enough to feel her heart pound.

You can’t protect them from the dangers that lurk around most every corner. You have to trust that they’ve absorbed some of the cautionary chants you’ve muttered incessantly over the years. You pray that God will hold them in the palm of His hand.

The day will come when you can’t be there to hold on tight — because it’s time to let go.

Be safe.