Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  In late October, we moved in, one month before our first son made his appearance during a Thanksgiving Day snowstorm. The backyard dirt disappeared under a foot of snow, and the frozen chunks looked like puffy marshmallows in a fairytale landscape.

  When spring came, the snow melted, and little by little, as the budget permitted, we bought rolls of sod and covered the back yard area that had become a mud hole when it rained and a dust bowl when it didn’t. The money ran out before the yard did, and we never did finish the last ten foot strip running across the back of the lot.

  No matter. It would be a perfect place for my very own garden, a place to get on my knees and commune with God while I planted stunning arrays of beautiful flowers—a far cry from the pathetic little pansy plots in our apartment window box.

  Alas, being a city kid with a mother whose garden belonged to her alone, I knew nothing about growing flowers like those pictured in seed catalogs. I couldn’t even tell the flowers from the weeds. Finally, I decided if it looked healthy, prosperous and happy to be there, it must be a weed.

  In time, having a back yard full of weeds and just a few struggling petunias seemed not so important as enthusiasm slipped away and one son was joined by another. Two little boys, growing too fast out of babyhood into toddler-hood, then into noisy, tumbleweed boyhood.

  My garden turned into a playground—for all the kids in the neighborhood; Timmy from up the street, Eddie and Debbie from across the back yard, Mark, Carol and Gary from the house on the corner, plus others who just wandered in. We dubbed it the “Kiddie Garden,” the only place, it seemed, where kids could dig holes, build play houses and make noise—a place to fool around, get dirty and just be kids.

  When I looked out the kitchen window at my “garden” I never did see the panorama of flowers I envisioned when we first moved in. I saw instead, perpetual motion from dirt streaked faces peering out over the tops of T Shirts, pre-school engineers building roads and bridges for their toy trucks. I saw mounded dirt pile forts, and pint-sized warriors waging noisy battles back and forth, trying to capture enemy flags, (sticks in the ground with rags tied at the top.) There were only two rules in the kiddie garden— all holes had to be filled back up by the end of the day, and no fighting. Anyone who couldn’t get along had to go home.

  In the winter, the “garden” was flooded and those same warriors and hole diggers in pillow-puff snowsuits, tried out their single-runner skates in the safety of the small ice patch before they attempted to handle the crowded public rinks.

  In time, we outgrew the small house on Oakland Avenue and life moved on. The neighborhood kids grew up and became adults, making their own way in the world with their own kids. Today, I see yesterday’s children scurrying non-stop to keep up with the programs designed to give them “quality time” with their children, and I often wonder if they look back on the days we laughingly said we were growing the best crops in the neighborhood—sticky faces, dirty knees and laughing kids—all playing and thriving in the place we called the “Kiddie Garden.”

  Jacklyn Lee Lindstrom

  Anniversary Celebration

  Every year, a few weeks before our anniversary, I begin looking at my husband and feeling hopelessly nostalgic. I can’t help but miss the people we once were—passionate, carefree, romantic—people who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. We used to stay up all night just to see the sunrise. We had midnight picnics in the park, and I would wear sexy lingerie on a regular basis.

  But that was before three children (ages ten, seven and two). It was before school-board meetings and budget planning, not to mention diaper disasters. Now, a few weeks before our anniversary, I’m feeling the need to rekindle the passion of days gone by (at least for one night). I plan a romantic anniversary dinner with candles, wine, music, grown-up food and no children. I really wanted to give the evening a special touch, but staying up to see the sunrise won’t work when you’ll be spending the next twelve to fourteen hours chasing a two-year-old. A midnight picnic sounds too dangerous, considering creeps now overrun the park after dark. I opt instead to cap our evening off with lingerie.

  After securing a babysitter I’m encouraged and head to my long-abandoned lingerie drawer. Looking at the ensembles that practically scream sex, I am sure any of these hot little numbers will more than rekindle passion, and I wonder why I ever abandoned them in the first place. I can hardly wait to try them on, and in this spirit I decide my daughter could use an early nap today, leaving me two hours free to contrive an outfit before my boys arrive home from school.

  Forty-five minutes and several stories later, my daughter is asleep, and I all but run to the lingerie drawer. My first choice is an emerald and black Wonderbra. I hook the hook and pull the straps over my shoulders, almost giddy with anticipation. Then I look in the mirror and to my utter horror, the full effects of breastfeeding Baby No. 3 are realized as this wonder creation pushes my cleavage to the center of my chest, giving me the appearance of a Cyclops, if you get my drift. The only real wonder is that I can breathe with everything all squeezed together.

  Feeling disappointed but not defeated, I remove the Wonderbra and reach for stockings and garters, only to be disappointed again—this time because of a weird rubber-band-around-a-sausage effect I won’t even bother to explain.

  My little lingerie adventure continues for about thirty minutes, when I realize that lack of oxygen and circulation isn’t going to rekindle anything. I slowly close the lingerie drawer and resolve to find another way to zap some wild passion into our marriage.

  Over the next few days, I watch my husband closely, trying to determine the best way to top off our anniversary celebration. I see him with our children, reading stories to our two-year-old, helping with homework, coaching a basketball team of six- and seven-year-olds, and the million other daily parental duties that don’t exactly scream romance. But then I look closer, and I see us sharing good morning hugs, holding hands at a ball game and always sharing good-bye kisses before work, and I realize that although it’s not wild with reckless abandon, we still can’t keep our hands off each other. In our own quiet, comfortable way, we are passionate, but now we know passion is more a state of mind than a state of undress.

  So this year on our anniversary, as I sit across the candlelit dinner from my husband, I’ll know it’s okay to feel a little loss for the people we once were, as long as we remember to celebrate the people we’ve become.

  Renee Mayhew

  off the mark by Mark Parisi

  www.offthmark.com

  Reprinted by permission of Mark Parisi. ©2004.

  Near Misses and Good-Night Kisses

  The art of being happy lies in the power of extracting happiness from common things.

  Henry Ward Beecher

  It had been one of those mornings—the kind that prompts mothers to think about their lives prior to motherhood.

  My six-year-old son had mixed pancake batter in the blender—without the lid—leaving dribbles of Aunt Jemima trickling down cupboards, curtains, walls and stove. As I watched the goo quickly harden into a cement-like substance, I learned that our hamster, Houdini, had once again escaped from his cage.

  “Bye, Mom,” my boy called as he dashed out the door en route to the school bus. “And, oh, Mom, you’re supposed to bring three dozen brownies to Scouts after school tonight.”

  I thought more desperately about my life before motherhood. At first the memory was so foggy, I nearly concluded that parenthood had mercifully numbed that part of the brain responsible for recalling one’s past, carefree life. But then slowly, it began to come back. I recalled sleeping in on Saturday mornings, spontaneous trips to the mall and dining at the kinds of restaurants where soft drinks don’t have plastic lids. I dimly remembered a quiet, orderly house and a sparkling kitchen with nary a trace of pancake batter anywhere.

  My husband broke my reverie on his way to the garage. He must have been reading my addled mind, for he whispered, “Just think what you
would have missed.”

  “Missed?” I scoffed, refocusing on my kitchen walls. “Hah!”

  Yet once alone in the house, I reluctantly pondered what I might have missed, but for the pitter-patter of little sneakers. Cynically, I grumbled that I would have—and gladly—missed a number of sleepless nights and dirty diapers and chicken pox.

  Then I smiled in spite of myself, remembering a plump, dozing baby curled in my arms. The memory made me think anew.

  I realized I would have missed that sweet, toothless grin and the tiny dimpled fingers clenched earnestly around my own. I would have missed the first, halting “Mama” and the “Mommies” and “Moms” that have followed a thousand times over.

  I might never have applauded a successful encounter with the potty, nor decorated my refrigerator with fledgling works of art, nor become a marathon swing pusher.

  I certainly would have missed meeting Mr. Rogers, Bert and Ernie, and Kermit and the gang—all good, true friends. I might never have roasted marshmallows in the fireplace to the tune of irrepressible giggles, or felt a small body pressed next to mine during a thunderstorm.

  I would have missed countless bedtime stories, goodnight hugs and kisses and the nightly litany of “God blesses” that included the crickets under the front porch.

  I never would have mourned a fish named Harold, nor housed a birds’ nest collection, nor spent a near lifetime assembling a super-galactic command center.

  The birthday parties, the trips to the zoo, the sand pies, the dashes through the sprinkler and the walks around the block—I would have missed them all.

  I never would have known my parents as grandparents. I would have missed my dad baiting a fishhook with a “Willy Worm,” as wondrous brown eyes widened to saucers. I would have missed my mom rocking her “sugarplum” and singing his favorite country-western tune. There’s a deeper love and appreciation for my own parents that I might never have felt had I not been a parent myself.

  I would have missed knowing my husband as a father. I would never have witnessed that serene, reflective man transformed into a bucking bronco or riding the Tilt-a-Whirl for the sixth straight time with a curly head tucked securely in the crook of his arm. I might not have learned what it means to truly look up to another—to see a little boy who unknowingly adores his father so much that he walks like him and talks like him and even cocks his head in just the same way.

  I wouldn’t have shared my child’s fears and apprehensions and felt them more poignantly than my own, nor regaled in his joys and successes, nor prayed for his health. I would have dearly missed experiencing the unconditional love a mother has for a child.

  And, if the truth be known, I would have missed reliving the magic moments of childhood through my own child’s eyes: the visits to Santa and hunting for Easter eggs, trick-or-treating, lighting sparklers and summertime stops for a double-dip cone.

  I would have especially missed the laughter—the fresh, young child’s laughter that bounces off the walls and rolls down the stairs, filling a house with life and warmth. It’s an infectious kind of laughter, perhaps the glue that keeps a family close.

  Suddenly, I laughed out loud myself as the truant Houdini waddled out from under a chair and wiggled his nose at me. I laughed until tears dampened my cheeks, thankful that I hadn’t missed a single moment of motherhood.

  Sally Nalbor

  4

  BECOMING

  A MOTHER

  The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new.

  Rajneesh

  off the mark by Mark Parisi

  www.offthemark.com

  Reprinted by permission of Mark Parisi ©2004.

  Replicas

  A mother understands what a child does not say.

  Jewish Proverb

  After one last agonizing push, my baby is here. All I can see are bright red, squirming legs and feet as one doctor passes her to the next, and she disappears amongst the teal green clothing of the medical personnel.

  I try to see what is happening over on that table under the light, but it is impossible from my angle. But my mother is here.

  “Oh, she’s beautiful!” she tells me, and grabs my hand.

  I believe my husband is in shock. He stands behind the nurses and doctor staring in disbelief at our little creation.

  Seconds later, a bundled up little person is placed in my arms. And now, for the first time, I look into the face of my daughter, a perfect, innocent human being who has never been exposed to hate, sorrow or cruelty. To my surprise, she isn’t crying, but is making a sound somewhere between a hum and a coo. Whatever it is, it sounds beautiful to me. Her eyes are dark and round—she has my eyes!

  As my eyes meet the tiny replicas of my own, “Oh my gosh” are the only words I can mutter before I begin to cry.

  She looks like an angel. A tear drops from the tip of my nose and lands on her bright pink cheek. She blinks.

  “Sorry,” I whisper as I wipe my tear from her cheek.

  Her skin is so soft; it feels like velvet. Her hair is tinged with blood and looks dark from the wetness.

  Caught up in this serene moment, I have forgotten my husband and mother at my side. They both have tears in their eyes.

  I look at my husband and say, “This is our baby.”

  He kisses my forehead.

  My attention is once again directed solely to this miracle in my arms and the rest of the world disappears again. Her eyes are looking about now, and her tiny lips are slightly moving as if she is trying to tell me a secret. Her little nose is covered with tiny white bumps that look as if God carefully placed them there. A little hand emerges from the white blanket. It is a bit purple and oh so tiny. With my index finger, I stroke her palm. She grasps my finger and holds on tight. My heart melts. She looks at me again.

  “Hi,” I say, with a big smile.

  “Honey, we’ve got to run a few tests and give her a bath.

  I’ll bring her right back,” a nurse says out of nowhere.

  “Okay,” I say with a sigh.

  I look back down at my daughter and say, “I love you, Summer.”

  The nurse carefully takes her out of my arms. As she is leaving the room, I watch the blanket move from the wiggling of my baby’s feet.

  Minutes later,my mother and I are alone in the room. She hugs me all at once, and I notice she has tears in her eyes.

  “There is no love like the love you have for your child,” she says, looking into my eyes, replicas of her own.

  “I know,” I say, and smile.

  Melissa Arnold Hill

  Pink and Blue Makes . . . Green?

  It’s come to my attention that there are two types of pregnant people in this world: those who find out the gender of their child as soon as they can and go around calling their stomach “Tommy” or “Jennifer” for the next nine months; and those who refuse to find out the gender of their child one nanosecond before the actual birth, no matter what.

  Let me just stop right here a minute and say that I, in no way, advocate one choice over the other. I firmly believe it’s a personal choice that should be left to the parents.

  But, that said, what I don’t understand is why the very same people who refuse to look at the sonogram screen in the doctor’s office, are perfectly fine with relying on old wives’ tales to predict their baby’s gender.

  Take, for instance, my friend Linda, who tried to find out what she was having by twirling a needle on a string over her stomach. “It’s a girl,” she announced gleefully over the phone. “The needle spun in circles.”

  She was so sure, in fact, that she painted the nursery pink and stenciled ballerina bunnies on the walls. But, as luck would have it, when she tried it again two months later, the needle moved in a straight line, mostly between the refrigerator and television set. And everyone knows what that means.

  But that’s not all. Once, when
my friend Julie was pregnant with her second child, she heard she could tell what she was having if there was a white line above her top lip. “Can you come over,” she said frantically over the phone, “I think I have a lip line. But I can’t tell if it’s really a line-line or a pale wrinkle or a milk mustache left over from the bowl of cereal I ate for breakfast.”

  The big drawback to this method was that, once we determined that it was, indeed, a bona fide line-line, we had absolutely no idea if that meant she was having a girl or a boy.

  And, oh all right, then there was the time I tried the Chinese lunar calendar method. But just for the record I want you to know it’s a highly respected system based on a complicated numerical combination of the father’s birth year, lucky elements, planetary rotation and the number of his favorite local take-out place. (But I could be wrong about this last one.)

  But what I didn’t see coming was that to get an accurate result you need to be fairly good at math. So, after spending hours adding and subtracting cycle scores and percentages and all that, I came out with a bizarre triple negative number that’s only been seen on university entrance exams and certain Wall Street corporate earning reports.

  But, that’s just the kind of answer I usually get whenever I try to walk on the mystical side of life.

  The other day my friend Linda, who’s now six months pregnant, said to me over coffee, “I’ve tried everything. According to the needle test I’m having a boy, the lunar calendar says I’m having a girl, the heartbeat test falls somewhere between a boy and a girl, and the Drano test doesn’t say anything at all, but it smells really, really bad,” she sighed. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”