True story – I swear.

It was about 9 p.m. Monday night. The girls were already in bed, and I had just settled down after a long day at work.

The softness of the couch cushions was a welcome relief after about 12 hours on the job, and I squished myself down to enjoy some mind numbing television.

Two and a half seconds later I felt this horrible hot, stinging pain on the top of my thigh.

I mean red-hot fire that hurt so bad it took a moment for my brain to register it.

I jumped up quick like and went in search of whatever it was. Turned out, it was a wasp – inside my pajama bottoms.

Promise to goodness.

I can’t tell you how it got there, but I can tell you it hurt bad enough I wanted to call my momma and ask her what to put on it. Alas, I sucked it up, and eventually, it quit hurting, and I went to bed.

Tuesday, there was only a small red spot to serve as a reminder of the incident, and I didn’t think of it again until I got a text message from my daughter who is in Orlando, Fla., at Disney World with her honors club.

It was around lunchtime, and since I was unable to get her on the phone the night before, I asked if it was where she could talk.

She replied back – and I quote – “No, later.”

Ten-years-old and I’ve already been put on the back burner to fun, friends and Mickey Mouse. That stung almost as much as that wasp bite from the night before, and I realized – this is exactly how my mother felt all those years ago.

I can’t pinpoint an exact time, date or event that might have caused me to react that way, but I know it happened. As sure as the sun sets, I dropped her like a hot rock. It was probably around my sophomore year in high school. I got a car and was gone like the wind. Drove myself all the way to college and into marriage and babies.

But, somewhere along the way, I made my way back home until hardly a Sunday can go by without breakfast or lunch or dinner or maybe a combination thereof at Nana’s house.

She got on to me the other day because, she said, I never called her “Mom” or “Momma” anymore – which is totally not true. There’s just more around to call out ‘Nana’ than there is to say, “Mom.”

“It’s always ‘Nana,’ she said – like I had forgotten who she was first, but her comment made me realize, that even moms need reassurance sometimes that they are still a priority in their child’s life.

Just like I need that child of mine to call me back – which she hasn’t up to this point – so I can at least hear her voice.

After all, she has been gone all of two days, and I can promise there won’t be any trace of sting in my voice as I gently remind her to not forget about her mother.