When I was in preschool, I would fake having a life threatening illness on a daily basis in order to stay home with my mom.

I was convinced that it worked—at least for a little while.

Eventually, though, my older sister blew my cover, and I was forced to carry a jack-o-lantern trick-or-treat bucket as a barf bag.

My mom thought the embarrassment would cause me to stop pretending, but she was so wrong. I carried my barf pumpkin with pride.

I soon reached the realization that my mom could tell when I was genuinely sick, so my mother-daughter time was slightly more limited. From that point on, I was only allowed to be sick when I was actually sick.

I know, it’s quite the tear jerker.

I think it’s interesting that I learned the value of a mother’s company on sick days at such a young age.

Now, I can’t call my mom from upstairs to tell her my stomach hurts.

I can’t count on her to bring me my medications on the hour.

I can’t smell her cooking chicken noodle soup in the kitchen.

She’s too far away to toss me a Sprite when I’m in dyer need.

Basically, until college, I lived the life of a sheltered, spoiled brat when I was sick.

College has changed me.

On Monday morning, I woke up wheezing. I was convinced I’d swallowed cotton balls in my sleep.

My nose was stuffy, I couldn’t breathe out of my left nostril, and I wanted my mom.

But, no, she wasn’t there.

I told myself, "I’m in college now; I’m a strong (weak), independent (dependent ON MY MOM) woman (child)."

Upon the realization that I had no homemade soup to cure my ailment, I hobbled to the nearest drugstore to buy cough drops and decongestant.

I then trudged back to my room and wallowed in my sorrows until I fell into a deep, sinus-aided sleep.

My mom wasn’t there to take me to the doctor, so I didn’t go until she ordered me to over the phone.

Then, reluctantly, I drove myself to a local urgent care. I hacked. I wheezed. I sniffed.

“That doesn’t sound good,” the nurse admitted.

In that moment, it hit me.

I really missed my mom.

I had a sinus infection and bronchitis, and I was convinced that all I needed was a hot bowl of chicken noodle soup.

Instead, they gave me antibiotics.

I’m still convinced the chicken soup would’ve done the job.

Go hug your mom, kids.