I may be her eight-dollar daughter, and sometimes her five-cent daughter, but my mom is worth a million bucks.
Every morning I call her before school, and most nights I call her before going to bed. It's not that we have anything to say. She likes to hear what went on at work, because truth is stranger than fiction. When it's Mom's turn to talk, I'm never sure what I'm going to learn. Because she rarely arrives at the destination she sets out for with her story. Except that time she was sure those partners in crime women writers were secretly murdering people in order to have book plots.
Last night I called around 10:30. Mom stays up late and watches David Letterman. I'm a TMZ kind of gal myself. I didn't really feel like talking, what with my advanced case of HickGermItis robbing me of most of my voice. Mom was worried. I told her about the pharmacy not having my cough medicine. She said she was going to the doctor for lab work the next morning, and that she would be happy to ask if that prescription had been called in. I told her that was okay, I'd deal with it from school on my plan time. Then she asked if she could pick up the medicine and bring it to me at school if it was ready. I told her that was okay, that I probably shouldn't take that medicine at school, because it has a tendency to put me to sleep two hours later. Then she offered to come out and spend the night at my house, because Hick was going to be on a business trip, and I would be left with only strapping young Genius, a licensed driver, and the helpful little Pony to tend to me should I grow ill in the night. I told her that was okay, that I didn't want her to spend an uncomfortable night away from home for my benefit, and that I knew she was just a phone call away.
As we hung up, Mom said she would be thinking about me all night, and that she would do anything she could to help me the next day.
I have not yet told her about my purple misshapen pinky-toe.