Of course, what made my mom my mom was the fact that that love — that love that burned in her brighter than fifty suns — was there even when times were bad. When The First Counsel was published, USA Today gave me a ruthless review. It was the kind of review that just felt like a public humiliation. The headline was: “Make First Your Last.” But when my mother saw it, she said to me, “Don’t worry. No one reads that paper anyway.” It’s the number one paper in the entire country!
And when the second novel had bombed and I was wracked with fear, I’ll never forget my mom on the phone — she said to me, “I’d love you if you were a garbage man.” And to this day, EVERY day that I sit down to write these books, I say those words to myself — “I’d love you if you were a garbage man.” I don’t care where she is — my mother is always there for me.
Let me be clear: All our strength, confidence, any success my sister and I have been blessed enough to receive, those were all watered and nurtured by the strength of the love that my mother showered on us. When I found out the last book had hit the top spot on the bestseller list, the first person I called was my mother. And of course my mom started crying hysterically. She was so proud. And when I heard her crying, I of course started crying. And in the midst of this tear-fest, I said to her, “Where are you now?” And through her sobs, she said to me, “I’m at Marshall’s.”
Of course she’s at Marshall’s, still trying to buy irregular socks for two dollars. It was my mother’s greatest lesson: Never, ever, ever, ever change for anyone. And her second greatest lesson: That Marshall’s just may be the greatest store on Earth.
In the end, my mother died the same way she lived. She laughed and smiled and enjoyed everything she could get from life, most of all, her grandchildren. They were the second great love of her life. When each of my children was born, my mother said to me, “Now you’ll understand how I love you.”
She was right. And it was the first time I got to see life through my mom’s eyes.
I don’t miss particular moments with my mother. I can always remember those moments. What I miss is my mother, and her reactions, and how she never hesitated to tell you whom she hated or what she thought, and most of all, how she loved me and my family with more love than one person should be able to muster.
She once said to me, “I’d saw off my own arm for you.” Again, not an exaggeration. Just Teri Meltzer being Teri Meltzer.
That love my mom gave me is my strength. It never. Ever. Wavered. It’s like the hum of an airplane engine — it’s there and it never lets up and it never stops — and you get so used to it, it just becomes part of the ride. But you’d know the second it was gone. My mother’s love for us never stopped.
It was a constant.
A foundation.
A law.
It is the pillar that has carried me everywhere and holds me up right now. Her love is a gift that she gave me. And it is the part of her that I hope I carry with me every time my child or grandchild shows me a picture they colored, every time I say thank you to the valet who parks my car, and damn well every time I drive past Marshall’s.
I miss you, Mom. And I thank you. I thank you for teaching me how a parent is supposed to love their child. And I hope you know that, in that and so much else, you live on forever.
~Brad Meltzer
A Smart Choice
If fifty million people say a foolish thing, it is still a foolish thing.
~Anatole France
I was in fifth grade when my mom bought me Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul at my school’s book fair. Despite being a few years shy of being deemed a “teenager” I was eager to read the book. With all the different stories I couldn’t decide where to start so I began flipping through it. One story I landed on has stuck with me over all these years.
“Just One Drink” by Chris Laddish describes the devastating loss of a brother who rode with a friend who drove after only having one drink. The grief of suddenly losing a loved one, especially in a tragic accident, is unbelievably sad. Aside from the sorrow I felt in reading this story, the fact that it could happen to anyone also made the story stick with me. I had known adults who would have more than one drink and then drive, and it made me see that this story could easily be about them.
This story had a tremendous impact on me. We had been taught about drugs and alcohol in school, that they were bad, and that some really terrible things can happen because of them. Combining that message with this story made me realize that even one drink could do some serious damage, the one drink that we were taught wouldn’t seem like a big deal, but was huge. Learning about alcohol and then reading this story made me fully understand the possible repercussions and consequences of drinking alcohol, which unfortunately for Michael, Chris’s brother, did happen. I read the story and decided at that moment I would not drink and drive nor would I get into a car with a friend who had been drinking, even if it was “only” one drink.
That decision came into play some years later when I was at a party and my first opportunity for underage drinking came about.
“Do you want one?” a friend asked, gesturing at a can of beer.
“No, thanks,” I replied.
I knew my rights and wrongs. I wasn’t going to stop my friends from doing what they wanted to do, but I didn’t want to take part in it. Underage drinking was commonplace, but it wasn’t for me.
Later that night they wanted to go get food.
“I’ll drive,” I quickly volunteered.
I wasn’t willing to let any of them drive, even though they had only had one drink. I remembered the story “Just One Drink” as we were walking out to my car. I was a little surprised that the promise I made to myself all those years before, after reading the story, still stood strong, but was grateful because it also made me remember the impact that just one drink could have. It put a small smile on my face to know I resisted the temptation to have just one drink and then stood firm on being the sober driver.
This story has popped into my head randomly over the years and each time it does I think of how much it has shaped my decisions when it comes to drinking and driving. Chris Laddish wrote: “The only thing that helps is telling my story, hoping you will remember it if you are tempted to get into a car with someone who has had a drink — even just one drink” and I have remembered it. I am very thankful Chris shared his story. I am twenty-five years old now and still stand by the choice I made when I was ten after reading “Just One Drink.”
Thank you, Chris.
~Sarah Winkler
Just One Drink
Drinking and driving: there are stupider things, but it’s a very short list.
~Author Unknown
There’s a small cross by the side of Highway 128, near the town of Boonville. If this cross could talk, it would tell you this sad story:
Seven years ago, my brother Michael was at a friend’s ranch. They decided to go out for dinner. Joe arrived and volunteered to drive — after just one drink.
Lightheartedly, the four friends traveled the winding road. They didn’t know where it would end — nobody did. Suddenly, they swerved into the opposite lane, colliding with an oncoming car.
Back home we were watching E.T. on video in front of a warm fire. Then we went to bed. At 2:00 a.m. a police officer woke my mom with the devastating news. Michael had been killed.
In the morning, I found my mother and sister crying. I stood there bewildered. “What’s wrong?” I asked, rubbing my sleepy eyes.
Mom took a deep breath. “Come here. . .”
Thus began a grueling journey through grief, where all roads lead to nowhere. It still hurts to remember that day.
The only thing that helps is telling my story, hoping you will remember it if you are tempted to get into a car with someone who has had a drink — even just one drink.
Joe chose the road to nowhere. He was convicted of manslaughter and served time. However, the real punishment is living with the consequences of his actions. He
left us with an ache in our hearts that will never go away, a nightmare that will haunt him — and us — for the rest of our lives. And a small cross by the side of Highway 128.
~Chris Laddish, age 13
Dedicated with love to the memory of Michael Laddish
Just One More Minute, Mommy
We’ve had bad luck with our kids — they’ve all grown up.
~Christopher Morley
I was a nervous and uncertain new mom, the perfect target audience for the recently released Chicken Soup for the New Mom’s Soul that I received as a gift from my husband. I read it cover to cover within two days and dog-eared my favorite stories. They would continue to inspire me on the days when I needed reassurance that I wasn’t the first to tackle the challenges of being in this new role. One story in particular, “Be Careful What You Wish For,” stuck with me for some reason. I remember thinking how I couldn’t wait until my baby girl, Priya, was potty trained. I couldn’t wait until we were past the baby stage, then the toddler stage, and most definitely could not wait until we were through the terrible-twos.
Well, we made it through all of those first years with Priya and I was blessed with another pregnancy. It was time to move Priya into a big girl bed and start getting things ready for baby number two. In those early days of the transition to the new bed, we had to lie beside Priya to convince her to stay in her room and resist the temptation to explore her new nighttime independence. It became a nightly chore and my husband and I would begrudgingly take turns every other night lying in that little twin bed trying to get her to fall asleep. After lying silently beside her, pretending to be asleep for five, ten, sometimes fifteen minutes, I would ever so quietly try to roll off the bed without waking her. But without fail, night after night, Priya would whisper, “Just one more minute, Mommy?” I was certain that some nights she actually spoke those words in her sleep.
But that bedtime routine stuck, and here I am years later, still lying beside Priya each and every night as she goes to sleep. Through all of these years, the last thing she says every night as I try to make my quiet exit is the same, asking for “just one more minute.” She still has that same twin bed, but a lot has changed within the walls of that bedroom. Priya is almost six now and is nearing the end of kindergarten. She is growing up way too quickly with her talk of boys and music, and sometimes an attitude that I thought wouldn’t arrive for another ten years at least. Over the past few months it has really hit me that my baby girl is growing into a big girl much faster than I expected. I am not ready for her to stop believing in princesses. Or to stop holding my hand in public. Or to call me “Mom” instead of “Mommy.”
In the past few months my son, Keegan, has become fully potty trained and is now sleeping in a big-boy bed of his own. I think back to that story I read years ago and realize that I am in the very same position as the woman who wrote that story. I realize completely now what she meant when she said “Be Careful What You Wish For.” Our bedtime conversations have now changed and there is a little less room for me in that twin bed, but I still lie with Priya as she falls asleep each night. I realize that these days are numbered and soon the time will come when she won’t even want me in her room at all.
So tonight when she whispers “Just one more minute, Mommy?” I know there is no other place in the world I would rather be. I will snuggle her close, give her a kiss on the head and tell her, “Yes Priya. Just one more minute.”
~Ritu Shannon
Be Careful What You Wish For
Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.
~Robert Brault
Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it. As my two-year-old sits astride the potty grinning from ear to ear over his first “success,” I can feel a lump growing in my throat. This is what I wanted, right? For my youngest child to be potty-wise? No more diapers. No more paying those diaper prices. No more making sure I have an ample supply before leaving the house. No more feeling guilty because I opted for the convenience of disposable over the environmentally responsible cloth ones. No more clipping diaper coupons, which I never remembered to use. This is the day I’ve been dreaming about? Isn’t it?
But with the end of the diaper era, I see the beginning of the end of a most meaningful chapter of my life. My mind flashes back to the insecure, nervous parent I was, just seven years ago, when I brought Haley home from the hospital. I remember smiling at the nurses as David wheeled me out of the New Family Center while inside I was screaming Are you people crazy? I don’t know how to take care of this baby! I think about the sleepless nights I spent, not because Haley kept me awake, but because I had to jump up every few minutes to make sure she was still breathing.
I remember the overwrought, inept mother I was when just twenty months later, I brought little Molly home and attempted to balance myself between a demanding toddler and a premature newborn, while trying to figure out how my marriage figured into all of this, not to mention any chance for a life of my own.
Next came three years of wrestling over whether to have a third, ending with a very pleasant surprise — the birth of my perfect baby boy. The day we brought Hewson home from the hospital, the five of us spent the morning on the bed just snuggling and falling in love with each other. This is a family! I thought. I feel sorry for anyone who’s not a part of it.
Has so much time passed since that day? When did my baby get this big? With Haley and Molly I tried to speed along each phase of their baby and toddlerhood. “I wonder if she’ll be sitting by Christmas?” “I hope she’s walking by summer.” I pushed them into learning their colors, their numbers, their alphabet. Now, I wish I could slam on the brakes. I just want to drop to my knees right here on the bathroom floor and beg him to let me put him back in a diaper, a little gingham romper, and high-top shoes. Maybe we’ll tackle the potty next year.
To think of all the times over the past seven years when I’ve longed for a life of my own, to have time to pamper myself, to read like I used to, to have an uninterrupted phone conversation or bath. Suddenly all of that seems superfluous when compared with the feeling of knowing exactly who I am. I am this mom, wife, writer, teacher, storyteller, gardener, baker, volunteer person. I’ve loved that feeling of knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m in the right place at the right time. Whenever I feel overwhelmed with things I’m not getting done, I can stop, read a book with one of my children, and know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there’s nothing more important, more monumental, more future-building than what I am doing at that moment.
I wonder who I’ll be when all of that’s taken from me. I wonder how I’ll pass my days when I finally have the freedom for which I’ve longed. What will it be like to crawl into bed without first tucking three warm, little bodies under their own covers? How will I spend my mornings when I’m not drinking my coffee with the expectation of sleepy little feet shuffling my way for that first morning hug?
I close my eyes and make a pledge not to take any of it for granted, to enjoy every hectic, exhausting, demanding moment I have left in this chapter of my life. I pledge not to take a single snuggle or fish kiss or phonetically spelled love note for granted. Hewson is staring up at me. I know it’s time to lift him off the potty and run to the phone to tell his dad the “good news.” I wonder what his reaction will be.
~Mimi Greenwood Knight
Messages of Love
When someone you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure.
~Author Unknown
I nspiration jumped off the page and into my heart when I read the story, “To Read When You’re Alone,” from the book Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul. I felt encouraged and motivated to write notes to my three children and husband after reading the story about a mother who put letters under her son’s pillow. Because of this story, writing little notes became a common practice in my family. I stashed notes under pillows, in backpacks, lunch bags, briefcases, and jacket pockets.
It was fun to think of sneaky ways to hide my messages of love as I sent my family off to school or work.
I didn’t realize how valuable the note writing practice had become until years later, when my husband Ben, forty years old, was stricken with a rare liver disease and was told he would not survive without a liver transplant. Our children, Amanda, Benjamin, and Jordan, were ages twelve, ten, and eight at the time, too young to understand the full ramifications of his diagnosis. We chose not to tell them the seriousness of Ben’s condition to protect them as long as we could. They knew their dad was sick, but their worrying would not help their dad, and we wanted their world to stay as normal as possible, to continue with their sports, time with friends, and school activities.
Ben eventually had to take a leave from work to go on short-term disability, and eventually long-term disability, as he was spending more of his time sleeping. Frequently, Ben would find little notes hand scrawled in children’s writing hidden under his pillow: “I love you, Daddy. God bless you, Daddy, and have a fun day! You’re the best dad in the whole wide world!”
Many times Ben woke to find one or more stuffed animals beside him that one of the kids had brought him while he was sleeping, along with a note saying, “My friends will keep you company today. I love you, Daddy!”
Ben would often leave me notes under my pillow telling me how much he loved me, and what a great job I was doing with the kids. His words of encouragement kept me going, especially when his health deteriorated and he was in the hospital more than he was out. When he was put in the hospital full-time to wait for a liver transplant before Christmas, there was no more hiding the severity of his condition from the children.
Chicken Soup for the Soul: Reader's Choice 20th Anniversary Edition Page 12
