A twenty-six year old baby

I have been sick in bed for the last two and a half days. The reason for the "half" day is because I got up this morning, showered, dressed, went to work, all by 7:15am (on a Sunday, no less!) only to be told by the Commander that I should really go home and get back in bed. I'm not complaining, mind you, I was just really hoping that by going through the motions of getting ready like a healthy person would, I might then start to feel healthy once I got to work. Alas, I am back in my pjs, snuggled in my bed with my amazingly soft fleece Blazers blanket (courtesy of my wonderful roommate for my recent birthday) and once again wishing I had my mom here to take care of me.

There is something about having a mom around that puts me at ease. No matter what the situation, she does it better. I haven't really taken anything since I've been sick, with the exception of some TheraFlu, and even if she were here, there isn't much else she would give me, aside from maybe some zinc couscous in broth. If I made myself couscous and I got myself some zinc, I probably wouldn't feel any better. But if my mom got me zinc and couscous, I bet it would make a world of difference.

As a kid I never got much candy. Easter baskets were the exception, really, because even on Halloween we only handed out Tootsie Rolls, and we didn't go trick-or-treating. But whenever I had a sore throat, it was almost a guarantee that sooner or later I would get a lollipop. I remembered this around 4am this morning when I woke up with a burning throat. The first thing that popped into my head was "I wonder if we have any lollipops in the house." Again, I don't know if it would have helped any, but I bet if my mom had given me one, my throat would have felt fifty times better.

Last week I turned twenty-six. This is a definitive age, I have decided. Twenty-six means that I am no longer in my early twenties. I have officially moved to the "mid-to late-twenties" category. This is decidedly older than someone in their early twenties. In my head, at twenty-six I have officially become an adult. I'm supposed to be older, mature, responsible. I'm a grown up. And yet right now, in my bed, stuffy nose and sore throat, all this grown up really wants is her mom. And I don't think that is something a sick-me will ever really grow out of.