The message was short. I read it three times: "Hey, Mom, can I come to see you?" I wrote back: "Yes!" He said he hoped to make it in time for dinner. I made a quick run to the market, put sheets on the guest bed and set the TV to record the Warriors' game, so if traffic was awful, he wouldn't have to miss the first half. Then I began cooking, cleaning, watching the clock and listening for his footsteps coming up the walk. It's called waiting. I'm good at it. When he was a newborn, I'd wait for him to go to sleep. Soon then I'd stand by his bed waiting for him to wake up. I waited, as he learned to do things like walking, talking and feeding himself; throwing a ball, riding a bike and reading a book. I waited for him to start preschool, primary school, middle school and college. I waited with dread for him to start driving. And I waited up every time he came home late. I wait for my son to grow up, but that doesn't mean the waiting game is over. It never really ends. Mothers wait for all kinds of reasons--good news or bad, happiness or heartache. But the waiting is soon forgotten, usually, the minute a long awaited child walks through the door. My boy will be here soon. But if he's late, I can wait. I'm good at it. And he's worth  it. I will always leave a light on for him. Which of the following about the writer is TRUE according to the article?
Luckily, her son never makes her wait long. She has experienced all kinds of feelings while waiting for her son to do things. When her son went to college, her waiting ended. Waiting for her son is often boring, but once her son arrives she forgets about it.