Chicken Soup for the Expectant Mother's Soul

by Jack Canfield

Jim pointed to the Mercedes. “Imagine owning a beautiful car like that with no one kicking the back of your seat.”

  “Ever notice how baby formula cuts through new car smell faster than a toddler passes salsa?”

  “Yeah,” we said.

  “I saw his wife and him going out again last night. All dressed up.”

  “Must be nice not paying for a baby-sitter.”

  “We received a lovely card the other day from our sitter thanking us for the 401K and profit-sharing plan.”

  “He leaves early and comes home late from work any time he wants.”

  “Wives only want us around for crowd control.”

  “Yeah,” we chanted.

  “I bet his watch doesn’t get buried in the backyard like treasure.”

  “I doubt he’s ever worked all day oblivious to a Barbie sticker on his butt.”

  “He can eat his dinner while it’s hot.”

  “And not standing up.”

  “Yeah,” we said, standing there shaking our heads.

  Wayne’s wife brought out a tray of lemonade. “What are you guys staring at?”

  Wayne gestured across the street: “The neighbors’ new car, we were just saying if they had kids it . . .”

  “They can’t have children, you know,” she announced.

  The five of us looked at each other.

  “They’re infertile.” She passed out the lemonade and returned to the house. Except for the tinkling of ice against the glasses, it was quiet for a long time.

  “It’s a nice car, Wayne.”

  “I think I’ll go see what my kids are doing.”

  “Yeah.”

  Ken Swarner

  Daddy’s Girl

  As I button the last button on her frilly new dress, she reminds me, “Don’t forget to poof up the sleeves, Mom.” Finally with sleeves perfectly inflated, and slip, tights and patent-leather shoes all in their proper places, she dashes off to the full-length mirror to admire herself. “It’s the prettiest dress in the whole world, isn’t it, Mom.”

  “You bet,” I respond. This is the night of the Father/ Daughter Dance, and we’ve been looking forward to it for weeks.

  “This is gonna be better than Christmas, almost!” She giggles as I ready her hair for the fancy ribbon.

  I imagine her dancing the night away with her Prince Charming—Dad. My mind drifts back to the image of this child who didn’t have a Daddy until after she could say the word. My husband Ron, handsome, middle-aged, told the caseworker, “It doesn’t matter to me if it’s a boy or a girl.”

  Months later, on short notice, we flew from Ohio to Seattle with our two other children in tow. That night we hardly slept a wink in our hotel room.

  The next morning, eager to meet the new addition to our family, we arrived at the adoption agency offices before they opened for the day. It seemed like hours until finally, Susie, our daughter’s birth mother, walked in holding each of Elaina’s hands to guide her. Elaina took one look at Ron and shouted, “Da-Da.”

  That was it. Hearts melted as he scooped her up in his big arms to say hello. I didn’t know who I wanted to hug first, Elaina or her birth mother.

  Susie was so brave to make this decision. She’d had an adoption plan in place when she was pregnant with Elaina. But when the birth father came to the hospital saying they should get back together to raise their child, she hoped it would work. It didn’t. A few months later Susie was alone again, going to school, working and trying to raise Elaina. She did the best she could, but after nearly a year, she realized that she wanted more for her daughter. She wanted Elaina to be raised with a mommy, daddy and siblings. She happened upon the agency we were working with and chose us from a family picture book we had submitted.

  As soon as we met her, I felt an immediate bond to Susie. It’s that everlasting bond of motherhood we share because of our love for Elaina.

  Susie has gone on to school and kept in touch with us for a while. I know that even if we never hear from her again she’ll always be a part of our lives.

  As I dab a bit of lipstick on our little girl’s lips, Dad emerges from the bedroom. He’s dressed in his navy pinstriped suit and brightly colored animal tie that Elaina gave him for his last birthday. He takes one look at Elaina and exclaims “Wowee, you look beautiful, Princess!”

  I know he’s nearly as excited as she is. Tonight there’s magic in the air. Tonight Elaina’s Daddy will experience the thrill of his daughter riding on his feet as they swirl across the dance floor. They’ll share such delicacies as macaroni and cheese, pizza and hot dogs, while joining in the Limbo and Hokey Pokey.

  As they head out the door, she stops one more time for a quick glance in the mirror. “I really do look like a princess, don’t I, Dad?”

  As his eyes meet mine, they tell me we’re both thinking what we’ve talked about before. Nothing compares to the love between a little girl and her daddy.

  Nancy M. Surella

  I’ve Never Been So Scared

  Love is the true means by which the world is enjoyed: our love to others, and others’ love to us.

  Thomas Traherne

  Dear Blair,

  Happy birthday! It’s hard to believe that my daughter is three years old today. “My daughter” . . . those words mean so much to me.

  I wanted to give you a special present today. So I’m sharing with you some thoughts I jotted down three years ago while I was on a plane, flying to California to pick you and Mom up, eternally grateful to your birth mother for letting us adopt you into our family. Your brother Max and I were thirty thousand feet above Nevada heading to Los Angeles. We were four hours into the flight from New York. Max, who was three and a half years old at the time, had finally fallen asleep. I looked at his face and felt the love that fathers have felt for their children since the beginning of time.

  I was on my way to meet you, my new daughter, and your mother at a gate in Los Angeles International Airport. I was so happy and so scared. You were two days old, and from what everyone had told me over the phone, you were quite beautiful. Without even meeting you I knew you were my daughter, and we would share a life together because of circumstances beyond our control.

  I also knew you would have to deal with the fact that you are adopted, given to us by a birth mother and birth father, able to conceive children but unable to provide for them. I made a commitment to do everything in my power to explain the process of adoption to you in a way that would foster your growth as a woman and a person, and not as a victim.

  Both your mother and I believe that God picked you for us because we have lessons to teach each other. Max, at three and a half, had already taught me valuable lessons about my ability to love, nurture—and what a gift it is to be called “Dad.”

  I’m not sure either of you children will ever realize just how wanted you really were. I am sure you will know how loved you are. I suppose some parents who adopt spoil their kids by smothering them with love. Knowing myself and your mom, that’s a real possibility. Will you ever fully appreciate how many visits to infertility clinics, special examinations and miscarriages it took for us to realize that having a family—not a pregnancy—was what we wanted? Or about the morning when we understood beyond a shadow of a doubt that there were many ways to build a family, and all of them open doors into the parenthood club; the biological port is not the only entrance.

  I doubt you and Max will realize how diligently your mother placed ads in small-town newspapers around the country, hoping to find a birth mother who would give a child a gift of life and us the ultimate gift of love. Will you ever completely know how each time our telephone rang, our hearts were in our throats because this could have been the call we had been waiting for? There was so much pressure just to say the right things to the birth mothers, not to sound too old, or too anxious or even too educated to the seventeen-year-old girl on the other end of the line. I’m not sure you will care about those days; I wonder if knowing about those days will ever be import
ant to you and your brother.

  Adoption has taught me much that I could never have learned without going through it: how there is only one definition of thewords “father,” “mother,” “son,” “daughter”: someone who has the capacity to love any human being as their own.

  That’s why I was so scared. Back when you were born, two child custody cases had been in the news. One, Baby Jessica, involved a birth mother who changed her mind before the adoption was finalized. The courts took the child away from her adoptive parents and returned to her birth parents—people she did not know.

  Another case returned a teenaged girl to her birth parents after the hospital discovered that, years earlier, two infants had been switched at birth. No one would have known except that one of the children became very sick and died; during her sickness, blood tests revealed that she could not be the biological child of the people raising her. The surviving teen was torn, against her will, from the only family she had ever known. Both cases gave parents (biological and adoptive) nightmares. And both cases reminded me that in some states the law does not look at the bonds between children and their parents as we think and feel they should.

  Even as I watched these two cases unfold, I never doubted our decision to adopt. I admit, I wanted to ask the judges if either could give up a child he and his wife had loved as their own, a child they’d raised for thirteen years, two years, one year or even one month, just because she really was not their biological daughter? Could anyone? I doubt it.

  That’s the scary part of adoption in this great country of ours. There really is no way around the fact that until the adoption is finalized, the adoptive parents walk around waiting for someone to throw a wrench into the works. Fortunately, adoptions are reversed in only a very few cases. But those rare cases break real hearts, and strike terror in the souls of all who choose to adopt. Because once you hold a baby in your arms, the only thing you want to do is love and protect that child forever. You block out the fact that during the period it takes to finalize the adoption, one phone call can shatter your world.

  As I was mulling these thoughts over in my mind, the steward announced that we were ten minutes from landing. I was minutes away from stepping off the airplane and meeting my new daughter, Max’s new sister. I knew how I’d hug and kiss your mom, the mother of our two children. I’d brought a camera so we could take pictures, and was sure that we’d both start to cry. Slowly, I knew, my fears would subside. Over time, love conquers all, but right at that moment I was so scared. All I could hope was that no one had experienced a change of heart, or mind.

  For now, Blair, I’m just thankful that the wait is over, and all went well. And while these words mean little to you today, I hope someday you’ll be able to share them with children of your own. I want you to be able to say, with pride, that your family was built the way all families should be: from love. I want you to tell your children how much love their grandparents put into creating a family.

  Happy birthday, daughter.

  Love,

  Dad

  4

  CHALLENGES

  ALONG

  THE WAY

  Before you were conceived I wanted you.

  Before you were born I loved you.

  Before you were here an hour I would die for you.

  This is the miracle of love.

  The Baby’s Stash

  “How are we going to pay for the baby, Jim?” my wife Lois asked with concern in her voice. We had just received the news from the doctor about the upcoming birth of our first child. The news was met with joyful innocence, now reality was sinking in. I’m sure questions about birth expenses and how they will be paid are universal. They were in our case at least.

  I had just started a new job and had only minimal medical insurance, Lois was only working part time and had no insurance whatsoever. “Don’t worry Hon,” I said with confidence, “I’ll find a way.” And indeed I did.

  I paid for our first child with $2.00 bills. I was paid on a weekly basis and my employer paid in cash when you presented your timeslip. The even dollar amount from the last $10.00 or close to it was always paid in $2.00 bills. They did this so they could determine if you were spending anything in their establishment. Even then (late ’50s) $2.00 bills were scarce, with few in normal circulation.

  We had been told the doctor bill would be $150.00 and the hospital bill would be $175.00. This figure seemed like a lot to a guy making $58.50 a week, clear. What a difference forty-five years makes. The medical procedures have changed little but the monetary aspect of medical bills has become almost frightening. As the weeks progressed I would dutifully arrive home after each payday and hand Lois all my $2.00 bills.

  She had created a secret hiding place in the cupboard where she kept our “Baby Stash” as she laughingly called it. I never knew where it was so I had no idea how much we were accumulating. Whenever I would ask she would only smile, point to her now protruding stomach and say, “You will have to ask the baby.” I would just smile, pick up the evening paper and say, “He doesn’t feel like talking tonight.” You see I had already decided on the baby’s gender. It’s sort of a macho thing with males. Fortunately wives seem to understand.

  As the weeks turned into months I knew our Baby Stash was growing almost as fast as the baby was. The funny thing is—I never missed the money because I knew the $2.00 bills were not mine to keep. Like all pregnancies the delivery day finally arrived.

  Awakening in the middle of the night, I reached over for Lois and she was gone, leaving a warm spot where she should have been. Then I heard her in the front room. What’s that noise? I thought to myself. Sounds like she is ironing. I raised up in bed and hollered to her, “What are you doing?” “Ironing,” she said matter-of-factly. “What for?” I asked. “It’s time to go to the hospital and I want my new dress smock to look freshly pressed. Get up. Grab the suitcase and go out and start the car.” By the time our fourth child was born I knew this routine by heart. For you see it never changed. The only thing that changed was the manner we paid for our other children. Plus our cars were newer and easier to start.

  Throughout the years I have progressed in my career and the other children were fully covered by medical insurance. I was glad for this fact and so was Lois but it was sad in a way. For you see medical insurance can’t cover the surprised smile on a doctor’s face when you hand him a fistful of $2.00 bills and say, “Here’s your fee, Doctor.” Nor can a check from the insurance company ever take the place of Lois’s Baby Stash and the warm feeling we both shared when I handed her my weekly $2.00 bills.

  I had forgotten about the forty-two-year-old episode in my life until recently. I was at the supermarket when a dirty, worn $2.00 bill was placed in my hand along with my change. A lump arose in my throat and tears came to my eyes as I gazed at its tattered corners. Our Baby’s Stash and all it represented had arisen from my memory in a blinding flash.

  Struggling with my groceries, along with my memories, I walked toward my car and headed home to an empty apartment. Turning into my driveway I reflected how much fun it would be to start a Baby Stash once again. Then reality set in. There isn’t enough time left in my life or enough $2.00 bills in circulation any more. Then I grinned as I thought—maybe, just maybe I could start another Baby Stash using our new gold dollars—dreamer.

  James A. Nelson

  A Precious Gift

  “Are you going to find out what it is?”

  “Well, we’re really hoping it’s a baby, but I did see a lady on the front of the Enquirer who had kittens . . .” Okay, okay, so I never actually answered anyone like that, but I was tempted many times. By the time I entered my seventh month, I had already gotten used to ridiculous questions (e.g., “Haven’t you had that baby yet?” or “Well, are you ready?” and the ever-popular, “Won’t you be glad to have it?” ). And since my husband and I had chosen not to learn the sex of our first child, we decided we would ask the sex of our second child at the seven-month ultra
sound. We already had a happy, healthy four-year-old son, so our decision to find out invited many comments like a) “Maybe this one will be a girl,” b) “Well, when you get that daughter you’ll have the perfect family,” or c) “Now Matt needs a sister.” Although I secretly longed for a daughter I kept telling myself that it didn’t really matter.

  The morning of my ultrasound I was a nervous wreck. The doctor had told me to drink the requisite fourteen gallons of water and, the fool that I am, I followed her instructions. By the time we drove the thirty minutes to the office I was about to die, and after I waited in the reception area for another thirty minutes I was standing on the edge of hysterical. After all, hell hath no fury like a pregnant woman denied her right to potty. I begged them to let me go to the bathroom, but they gave me a tiny cup and said, “Just a little,” with an unsympathetic smirk. I made a Herculean effort to stop my flow and went back to the waiting room. Finally, it was time for the test. After smearing incredibly cold gel on my swelling tummy, I was parked unceremoniously on my back on a cot. The tech strapped every possible monitor firmly (read: tightly!) around me and I began to wonder if I could ever feel any less attractive. Surely this is what a beached whale feels like. I fully expected a group of Greenpeace activists to break in, shouting, “Don’t worry! We’ll get you back in! You’re gonna be fine, Shamu.” She began to describe the flickering image on the screen. “I see the heart, and all ventricles appear perfectly formed. The brain also appears normal. Measuring the legs, we can determine the approximate weight to see if we’re on track with your due date.”

  Dramatic pause, and then the announcement. “And if you want to know the sex, I can definitely tell . . . it’s a boy!” Her lips kept moving after that, but I didn’t catch too much of it. All I do remember is trying to maintain my composure while my husband held my four-year-old (who was squealing with delight). I am human enough to admit that I was disappointed at first. The drive home was the longest thirty minutes of my life. And after I closed the bedroom door, the tears finally came, bringing with them the acknowledgement that I didn’t want a daughter so I could have “a boy and a girl, the perfect family,” and I didn’t want a daughter so my son could protect her at school. I wanted a daughter for me. I wanted a little girl to wear mother/ daughter dresses with, to go to the hair salon with, to go shopping with (for prom dresses, wedding gowns) and to sniffle through It’s a Wonderful Life with. And as I kept on thinking about it, I realized that my deeper desire was not for a daughter but to go back and do my adolescence again.