“I don’t have malaria” is the subject line of an email sent to me a few days ago from my 21 year-old daughter and social entrepreneur, who has spent the summer months in Kenya establishing a start-up company in a small town called Nyahururu. “Are you sure?” I cross-examine her. “ I’m good mom, don’t worry,” she giggles while probably rolling her eyes to her friends heard chatting in the background.

It’s only 8 am, but I pry open some champagne and drink a glass or two, relieved that she’s about to leave Kenya, and thrilled that she will be joining her siblings in Amsterdam for a much needed visit before they all head off on their own, engaging in rewarding but separate lives.

Later that night I slip in more motherly advice, this time targeting my eldest child. “Don’t eat too many hash brownies,” I warn my 23-year-old daughter, who’s chatting with me from La Guardia airport in New York, where she lives and works. “People have been known to have some horrible reactions.” She breaks out in a roar and then softly says, “Gotto go board the plane…love you!”