I know that's a very general statement, and now, here's some proof to the theorem. A week ago last Friday (Feb. 29), I started coming down with a nasty-ass case of what I swore was Stephen King's "superflu" come to life - we're talking congestion bad enough to convince me that Robert Frost had it wrong; the world wouldn't end in fire or ice, but in one giant ball o' mucus.
I was NOT a happy camper, but being the dutiful, though somewhat neglectful, son that I am, I phoned my mom and spoke with her briefly, since I'd not done so in far too long. I wasn't on the phone all that long, because talking wasn't all that easy at that time, and I didn't harp on the fact I was sick, since that's not my style.
On Friday, when I came home, I forgot to check the mail slot on my front porch, and so didn't see the parcel slip until Saturday. By the time I did see it, the "Blizzard of '08" was in full force, so I wasn't able to pick up the package I was told was waiting for me. I left work a little early yesterday so I could make it to the post office before closing, all the while wondering what I was receiving, since I knew I hadn't ordered anything recently.
The mystery turned to pleasant surprise when the parcel was handed over to me, and I saw my mom's distinct handwriting on the addresses. I hurried home, and opened it up with the reckless abandon of a schoolboy on Christmas morning. My mom, immediately after I'd gotten off the phone with her, had taken the time to compose and send a "care package" of instant chicken soup, tea, hot cocoa, honey, Buffalo wing-flavored pretzel nuggets, microwave popcorn, aspirin, and the ultimate "comfort food" -- a package of Double-Stuf Oreos.
It goes without saying that I called to thank her immediately. I don't deserve such a cool mom. Anyone reading this, tell your mom you love her, right now...