Phoning Home

I call my mom a lot. Probably at least three times a week, and we talk for no less than 45 minutes. I think about calling her every day. For no particular reason. Just because I'm doing dishes and want to talk. But I don't because I'm careful with money. Well, at least I think about money...once in a while, and in deference to our phone bill, I try to practice some self control.

Much to Mr. Wicke's credit he has never commented on my phone calls to mom. It is a non-issue. He doesn't complain that I call her a lot, and I don't complain that he married me and took me far away from her. Yet another example of how Mr. Wicke and I were made for each other.

The funny thing about these phone calls, however, is that I'm not so good on the phone with anyone else. I never have been. I was not one of those teens that spent hours on the phone with friends, and I'm not one of those adult women, either. Just with my mom do I call to talk about nothing in particular.

And here's why: I never worry that she'd rather be doing something else. You see, I am unendingly interesting to my mother. Believe me, I am not delusional enough to think that anyone else on the planet feels the same way, but to Mom I am fascinating. If there was a tabloid magazine solely devoted to my non-celebrity, very average existence, she would be the only subscriber. Do you know what a gift it is to be loved like that?

I am unguarded with my mother because there are no strings attached. She was the person who loved me first, and she has, from that moment on, been on my side. There is a day, somewhere in the future, that I fear: The day when I can no longer call my mom on the phone. In that moment, I will lose my champion, my touchstone, my cheerleader, and my friend. I try not to think of it often, but knowing, perhaps, that that day will come is not so entirely bad. Perhaps that is why I call so often, just to say, "I love you, too."