Much Ado About Nothing

Working Parents.
They aren't bad. Really.
There are a lot of perks of being born to them;
You get more money, more permissions, more freedom, more friends.
But there are those times, like now, when you're down with dengue. Yes. Even I though only poor or ugly people got that. Clearly, not anymore.

I have almost recovered now, though. But it does make me stop and wonder that it would have been nice if my mother wasn't working all the damn time that I needed her; if she could come to the phone every time I called her; if she hadn't left the house to work each morning that I woke up with a hell lot of fever. I've grown up in a society where kids are fussed over for no rhyme or reason, Anything they do is cute. I think seeing those shabby little annoying monsters capable of any activity of any kind seems enough reason for appreciation. My brother and I were always cooler than that, or so we thought. Our working parents left us with maids who were nice to us because they were getting paid to do it. In the playground, only that kid can cry about each wound whose very fat mother is present in the background, bitching about the pretty young thing of the block and her new found sexuality. We never had any of that. I never had any of that. No wound was deep enough, no fever was high enough, no issue was big enough!
Hence, I cried less.
No. That isn't a bad thing at all.

But did I not deserve my share of fussing over about bullcrap? My personal area of much ado-ing about nothing? People need attention. I know I do. Only, I get it from other people for sometime now.

I like my mom. A lot.
I try and hang out with her as much as I can.
Just that,
sometimes I wish she did too.
More evidently.