I Want My Mommy

There's something about getting really sick that brings out your inner child. Last week, when I spent a good deal of my time praying to the porcelain goddess, was one of those times. My mom was always at her best during those times I needed her most. She'd stand at the ready with a cool washcloth for my forehead and a glass of ginger ale, undeterred by the grossness before her. As I knelt on the bathroom floor, I couldn't help thinking how much I missed being taken care of like that. Oh sure, my husband brought me chicken soup and extra blankets. My kids, proving to be half as self-centered as I often accuse them of being, offered to go shopping for whatever I needed, make me jello or clean the kitchen. They were all great but they weren't my mom. Now living forty-five minutes away, she did offer to come if I needed her but I'm pretty sure that didn't include holding my hair back and wiping my forehead every time I visited the bathroom which was exactly what I was missing. It never ceases to amaze me what we hold precious from our childhood. Sometimes it's the most mundane, forgettable occurrences that end up meaning the most. That's why I'm so glad I was able to be there for so much of my children's early years. I threw out a pretty wide net; it would be hard for them not to remember at least a few nice things I did for them. And if this ritual turns out to be one of them, my cool cloth and warm ginger ale will be standing by.