Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  I read over my pounding headache, around the errant thought of what to make for dinner and the doorbell ringing. The doorbell ringing! Oh no! All but the baby and I were off the couch to the door before I could grasp a moment of hope that whoever it was would give up and go away never to see me at my unkempt worse.

  “Grandma!” The children chorused while doing the Grandma-is-here dance of anticipated hugs and candy.

  Grandma coming was always good news for all of us, but it couldn’t be my mother! It couldn’t be today. She lived three hours away. She never just dropped by. What would she think? I scanned the room and sighed. There was no way to recover this, no way to quickly put things to right.

  Cold, fresh air rushed in ahead of my mother making me realize how stuffy and sick my house smelled.

  “Cindy?” My mother called my name, startling the baby and making her cry. I could hear my mother’s uneven steps as she navigated around and over the things on the floor.

  “Cindy?” she said again before spotting me among the Spiderman sheets.

  I was stricken. I was embarrassed. I had forgotten it was Thursday in the sameness of each day. I had forgotten that my mother had planned to stop in on her way back home from the city.

  “My, oh my, have things gotten out of control around here,” she surveyed the room and started laughing when she saw my gowns drying on the bouncing horse with my nursing bra forming a hat over its head, its ears sticking through the drop down flaps.

  Her laughter filled the house with the first ray of sunshine to make it through the wintery gray of the last mucky week.

  I started to giggle, then to laugh right out loud before I teared up in my fatigue.

  My mother cleared a space for herself beside me. “Cindy, weren’t you raised in my home?”

  I nodded, because no words could get around the choking of my tears.

  “Was my house always perfect, always clean?”

  I shook my head no.

  “Did you think I was a failure as a mother or as a homemaker?”

  Again I shook my head no.

  “And I don’t think that of you. I have sat where you are sitting now,” she grinned at me while she reached over and pulled a toy horse from under my hip.

  We chuckled together.

  “Cindy, I can tell you one thing, and you listen to me,” her voice became solemn with the depth of what she wanted to say. “These are the days you will smile fondly on when the years have passed and your time becomes quiet enough to roam the memories of your heart.”

  I recognized the love and truth in her words. I wrote them on my heart and contemplated them when my mothering days were both calm and sunny and hectic and never ending.

  Now, the years have passed and my time has become quiet enough to roam my memories.

  And when my daughters and daughters-in-law are pressed in and overwhelmed with the making of their families and homes, I remember and I say to them, “These are the days you will smile fondly on.”

  Cynthia Hamond

  off the mark by Mark Parisi

  www.offthemark.com

  Reprinted by permission of Mark Parisi. ©2001.

  On-the-Job Training

  We admire the other fellow more after we have tried to do his job.

  La Rochefoucauld

  After being on the mommy track for several years, I decided to test the corporate waters and check out the going rate for all the volunteer work I’ve been doing at home. Translation: I had a bad week and the grass was looking much greener on the other side of the laundry basket. What started as a casual perusal of the local want ads quickly evolved into an interview, and I suddenly needed to update my resume. To include all that I’ve accomplished in my years at home, naturally, I highlighted the following:

  Fluent in Several Languages. Studied Baby-ese, eventually attaining the ability to switch back and forth from this language to Big People Talk with about 75 percent success rate. Current position finds me deciphering shrugs, gestures and other nonverbal communication used by my preteens to answer the questions “Where are you going?” and “Do you have homework?” Presently involved in teaching these same children English as a Second Language.

  Peacemaker. Experience rivaling that of Madeleine Albright. Breaking up drag-outs between three-year-old twins puts me in contention for the Nobel Peace Prize. Have gone through the “share” and “be nice” routine so often that the Barney show could put me on retainer through the year 2025.

  Race Car/Stunt Driver. Accomplished in getting from preschool to the dental office to band lessons to basketball practice quicker than one lap of the Indy 500. Only adult in the house with ability to locate various gas stations in town.

  Illusionist. Perform more sleight-of-hand and magic acts than David Copperfield at a gig in Vegas. Possess extraordinary home-budgeting skills using this technique. Also able to make broken cookies whole again, re-assemble dilapidated science-fair projects and fit a size-twelve body into size-ten jeans for a brief period of time.

  Child Psychologist. Firsthand experience with various psychoses of children. Developed theory that bedtime brings about increased activity in young children measurable in direct proportion to fatigue of parent. Author of the thesis entitled “Because I Said So as the Only Explanation to the Question ‘Why?’”

  Clairvoyant. Have the uncanny ability to see things even though they are not there. Strengths include finding spouse’s car keys, kids’ library books, little hands in the cookie jar. Attribute this talent to the fact that I do, indeed, have eyes in the back of my head.

  Scholar. Have become proficient in solving fifth-grade word problems involving trains leaving stations at varying speeds, memorization of all the Arthur books ever written, and deciphering the alphabet as it can only be recited by three-year-olds (i.e. the often used “Elmo-and-a-pea” for the middle five letters). Skilled in being successfully quizzed in these areas upon demand so as not to lessen my credibility with children. Can spell hieroglyphics quicker than my own name, have constructed numerous Iroquois villages out of clay and witnessed the miracle of celery stalks turning blue in colored water over thirty-seven times.

  Hobbies. Dabbled in cooking, cleaning and laundry in spare time.

  I ended up not changing my employment status, mainly because I couldn’t afford to replace me. If I wait a few years before confronting corporate America again, I should have no problem keeping my resume fresh with all the experience I’m getting. I only hope I don’t become overqualified.

  Karen Trevor

  Mother’s Magic

  Mama was my greatest teacher, a teacher of compassion, love and fearlessness. If love is sweet as a flower then my mother is that sweet flower of love.

  Stevie Wonder

  Ken, the sixth child in our family, was born with cerebral palsy, profound deafness and mild retardation. Though my mother was extremely affectionate and loving, she never babied Ken. She expected him to do whatever we did.

  I remember one Christmas we got a new swing set and slide. Ken, who was nine years old, loved the slide from the first second he saw it, but because of the braces on his legs, he couldn’t manage the steps. So he spent the holidays watching the rest of us from the ground.

  The first day we were all back in school, Mama put Ken in the backyard, this time without his braces, and watched him crawl right over to the slide. For the next three hours or longer, Ken climbed the ladder and fell, climbed the ladder and fell, again and again. He busted the knees out of both of his pant legs. His head was bleeding a little by one ear and so was an elbow.

  The neighbor to the back of us yelled at my mother, “What kind of woman are you? Get that boy off that ladder.” Mama told her kindly that if it upset her, she would have to close her kitchen curtains. Ken had decided to go down the slide, and down the slide he would go. It took a couple of days of trying before he could go up the ladder and down the slide as well as the rest of us, and another week before he could do it with his braces on.
r />   But to this day, Ken—the boy who was not supposed to make it to his tenth birthday and is now a forty-two-year-old man who lives independently and holds down a job— approaches everything the way he did that slide so many years ago. What a gift my mother gave him that day by expecting him to be the best he could be—and never settling for less.

  Mama could also make things easier for Ken. One weekday morning, the ladies of the church altar society were seated in our living room enjoying polite conversation and cups of my mother’s coffee. Ken, an adult now, woke up and took his place at the head of our dining-room table in the next room. Mother excused herself, served him his morning coffee and toast, then rejoined the ladies in the living room. With his breakfast Ken sat with his back to the open french doors leading into the living room and the group of ladies. However, just as he raised his coffee cup to his lips, his arm experienced an involuntary spastic movement and he threw coffee all over both french doors, one wall and himself.

  Mother rushed to him finding him embarrassed to the core, his head hanging, face beet-red, apologizing over and over to her for the mess he’d made. Mama didn’t miss a beat. She looked down in his cup, and seeing there was still an inch or two of coffee in the bottom, she threw the coffee on the only clean wall, and told Ken with sign language, “Looks like you missed a spot over here.” Ken dissolved in laughter forgetting all about his embarrassment and the mess he’d made, and with a gentle smile on her face Mother began to clean up the mess.

  Though I often feel I fall short when I compare my mothering to hers, it gives me great comfort to know that her gentle spirit is within me, somewhere—preparing me to make “mothering magic” of my own.

  Mimi Greenwood Knight

  Gotta Watch the Fish Eat

  What you do today is important because you are exchanging a day of your life for it . . . let it be something good.

  Anonymous

  I did something very daring today. I said, “No.” I was at a meeting where I was asked to serve on a committee that would require numerous Thursday evening meetings. And I said, “No.”

  I declined politely, even graciously, but it wasn’t enough. The others just looked at me, waiting. Three long seconds, four, five. Waiting, waiting for my important excuse. They couldn’t move on until I had explained my answer.

  “You see,” I continued, “I really want to be home to tuck the kids in bed at night.” Most of the others around the table nodded in understanding. “Well,” the chairperson offered, “we can make sure we’re done by eight-thirty, so you can be home in time to tuck the kids in.” The others murmured in affirmation, and turned back to me, expectantly, waiting for my response.

  “Well,” I explained, “that’s right when we are watching the fish eat.” The others weren’t impressed. “You see,” I continued, “on Thursdays, after I’ve quizzed the children for Friday’s spelling tests, we watch the fish. It’s just an important time in our family’s week. It seems to set the tone for the next day, and when I’m gone on Thursday nights, Fridays just don’t go as well.” My words sounded rather weak and almost silly as they tumbled out.No one said, “Oh, of course, Cheryl, we understand!” They were still waiting.

  Now, I could have added, “But, you see, I’ve got a book manuscript due to the publisher in two months that I have got to work on.” That would have been sufficiently important. After all, that’s my career. They would have nodded in understanding, and quickly moved on. But the truth is, I’m not writing between 7:30 and 8:30 P.M. on Thursday evenings. I’m being Mom. I’m reviewing spelling words for Friday’s tests. I’m checking math answers. I’m making sure permission notes are signed, book reports are written and weekly assignments completed. And when school work is done, and the children have brushed their teeth and gotten into their PJs, the family gathers on the couch in front of the aquarium to watch the fish eat. We feed the fish every night, of course. But on Thursdays we make an effort to sit together as a family and watch them. This is when I heard about Blake’s plans to be a paleontologist. It’s when I learned about how Bryce handled the bully on the playground. This is when Sarah Jean explained why she doesn’t want to wear bows in her hair anymore.

  The committee members were still looking at me. Feeling guilty, I almost changed my mind to say, “Okay, I’ll do it.” But I didn’t. Because my reason for saying no is important. On Thursday evenings, we watch the fish eat.

  Cheryl Kirking

  Dancing for Fireflies

  On a Saturday morning a few years back, I made a difficult and irreversible decision. My daughter was at the piano, galloping through Unchained Melody. My son was polishing the hallway mirrors, eager to earn a few extra dollars for a new CD. I couldn’t decide if it was the warm mug of coffee cupped in my hands—brewed just right for a change—or the sense of harmony that seemed out of character in a house that had become a war zone as of late, but I realized how crucial it is that a home be a peaceful place away from the turmoil of work and school. And, in those moments, a startling thought welled up in me. I suddenly realized that little by little, I was jeopardizing the greatest source of safety my children can possess: the home that my husband and I have provided for them.

  A safe home has little to do with physical elements, even though we judge other people’s homes by the craftsmanship of the woodwork or the quality of the drapes. I’m referring to the “atmosphere” of a home—or maybe “soul” is the definitive word. I recall one weekend years ago, visiting a college friend’s elaborate home. I was so impressed that each bedroom had its own bathroom with the thickest, most luxurious towels. Yet that detail seemed marred by the chilling silence that existed between her parents—a silence so loud that I still recall it vividly. I also remember a rather ramshackle house on the outskirts of my hometown. The lady who lived there was a seamstress, a kind woman who listened with eyes that smiled through peculiar blue-rimmed glasses. Whenever my mother took me for a fitting, I was never quite ready to leave. One evening when I went to pick up a dress, she and her husband, Eddie, with the oil-field grime scrubbed from his skin, sat at the table with their kids. They were eating peach cobbler, laughing loudly and playing Yahtzee, and on that evening, their home, with its worn furniture and framed paint-by-number artwork, was clearly one of the finest.

  Uncontrollable hardships may plague a home’s well-being: the loss of a job, a serious illness or even death. But it’s the circumstances many of us encounter on a day-today basis that often wear us down and more often contribute to the breakup of a home. I know many couples just like my husband and myself. Once upon a time each other’s company charmed us. Our infatuation with each other seemed to cast a rosy glow over the fact that we could barely make ends meet as we struggled to balance part-time jobs with our college classes. Our furniture was the cast offs our relatives were glad to unload, we guarded the thermostat with a frugal eye, and tomato soup was a common meal staple. Yet the two of us created a mansion out of our passion. We graduated, found our niche in the working world, bought our first house, and when our children came along, we were even more enchanted with the cozy feeling their wide-eyed wonder contributed to our home. Long walks with the stroller, Dr. Seuss, dancing for fireflies in the warm twilight—we were happy.

  But somehow twenty years passed and neither my husband nor I could account for the past five. Our jobs demanded more of our time, and our passion for each other slipped away so gradually I scarcely noticed. Our children grew older and fought more so we bought a house twice as big where we were soon spending our time in four remote corners: my husband with his work or evening TV, I with my nose in a pile of bills, my daughter’s ear glued to the telephone, and my son, depending on his moods, lost in the world of alternative music or ESPN. When my husband and I did talk, it was to argue about how to discipline adolescent angst, or whose turn it was to take out the garbage. What happened to the long walks, “Sam I Am” and the fireflies?

  On that Saturday morning months ago, I faced a reality I had been deny
ing. Something I never imagined could happen to me, had happened. I grew dependent on the attention of anotherman. Despite his graying hair, he’s uncannily like the strong-willed but sensitive guy who charmed me almost two decades ago. Our friendship sparkled because we’d never raised headstrong children, never lived together during hay-fever season, and never woken up to each other’s foul breath or puffy eyes. We had never experienced any of the tribulations,minor or major,which test and shape a relationship. In the months that followed, visits with him had grown more intense and drew me farther away from my husband, the other anchor in our children’s home. In fact, I had actually begun to imagine life without the man I had promised to love until my last breath.

  And so, in one of the saddest and most awkward moments of my life, I told my friend that I could no longer see him. I ended a friendship with a person who had begun to matter very much to me. As I struggled to abandon my feelings for him and embrace the logic of closing the door, the days which followed were filled with a frightening revelation: somehow, unthinkingly, when half of marriages end in divorce, I had threatened our home with the most common reason: a lack of commitment. I had pursued a selfish desire to the point that I could no longer distinguish between right and wrong. I had been entrusted with a loyal husband and two remarkable children, yet I risked their well-being with every moment I spent in this other person’s company.

  After my decision, there was a wave of emptiness that continually washed through me as I moved through each day. I felt it when I laid awake next to my husband who snored peacefully at three in the morning. It came again at work when my mind drifted away from the pile of paperwork in front of me or the discussion at a meeting. It welled up once more as I sat on the front porch with the evening paper and my two kids fought over the basketball in the driveway. Gradually, though, that feeling has been replaced with a sense of relief that, despite my temporary insanity, my family is safe. But a thousand “I’m sorries” will never take away the sting of remorse I feel nearly every time I look in my husband’s eyes and they smile back at me. While the passion we first had doesn’t always seem as strong, passion is meaningless compared with the qualities he possesses. I hadn’t a clue how much I would come to value his integrity, his work ethic or his devotion to our children. It wasn’t until I was confronted with the fear of losing the world that he and I had created together, that I recognized the pricelessness of his friendship.