Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul (2 page)
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Authors: Jack Canfield
Our publisher Peter Vegso, for his vision and commitment to bringing
Chicken Soup for the Soul
to the world.
Patty Aubery and Russ Kamalski for masterfully developing and advancing
Chicken Soup for the Soul
books and projects around the globe. Thank you for continually opening new channels for achievement and success.
Sue Penberthy for her calm, steady presence, her devoted help in obtaining permissions and her never-ending support. Cindy Buck for the precision, brilliance and joy she brings to the process of editing.
Patty Hansen, for her thorough and competent handling of the legal and licensing aspects of the
Chicken Soup
for the Soul
books. You are magnificent at the challenge!
Laurie Hartman, for being a precious guardian of the
Chicken Soup
brand.
Veronica Romero, Barbara LoMonaco, Teresa Esparza, Robin Yerian, Jesse, Ianniello, Jamie Chicoine, Jody Emme, Debbie Lefever, Michelle Adams, Dee Dee Romanello, Shanna Vieyra, Lisa Williams, Gina Romanello, Brittany Shaw, Dena Jacobson, Tanya Jones, Mary McKay and David Coleman, who support Jack’s and Mark’s businesses with skill and love.
Allison Janse, our main editor at Health Communications, Inc., for her deep devotion to excellence and for always being a joy to work with. Bret Witter, Elisabeth Rinaldi, and Kathy Grant for maintaining high standards of excellence.
Terry Burke, Tom Sand, Lori Golden, Tom Galvin, Sean Geary, Kelly Johnson Maragni, Patricia McConnell, Ariana Dainer, Kim Weiss, Paola Fernandez-Rana and Teri Peluso, the marketing, sales, and PR departments at Health Communications, Inc., for doing such an incredible job supporting our books.
Tom Sand, Claude Choquette, and Luc Jutras, who manage year after year to get our books transferred into thirty-six languages around the world.
The Art Department at Health Communications, Inc., for their talent, creativity and boundless patience in producing book covers and inside designs that capture the essence of Chicken Soup: Larissa Hise Henoch, Lawna Patterson Oldfield, Andrea Perrine Brower, Anthony Clausi and Dawn Von Strolley Grove.
All the
Chicken Soup for the Soul
coauthors, who make it such a joy to be part of this Chicken Soup family. We’re especially grateful to Jennifer Read Hawthorne who has worked with us on past books. Thank you for all we gained from sharing the journey with you.
Our glorious panel of readers who helped us makes the final selections and made invaluable suggestions on how to improve the book:
Willanne Ackerman, Joan Acuna, Diane Alabaster, Patty Aubery, Lindsay Baer, Alex Bunshaft, D’ette Corona, Allison Janse, Carol Kline, Eloise Leslie, Barbara LoMonaco, Nicki Lovett, Katy McNamara, Laura McNamara, Rita Navarrette, Sue Penberthy, Cindy Schwanke and Julie Young.
And, most of all, everyone who submitted their heartfelt stories, poems, quotes and cartoons for possible inclusion in this book. While we were not able to use everything you sent in, we know that each word came from a magical place flourishing within your soul. Thank you.
Because of the size of this project, we may have left out the names of some people who contributed along the way. If so, we are sorry, but please know that we really do appreciate you very much.
We are truly grateful and love you all!
Mom. Mother. Mama. Mommy. No matter what name we use, a mom is one of the most significant people in our lives. A mom loves unconditionally. When we are small, she feeds us, clothes us, protects us from harm and guides our lives in every way. As we grow up, she’s our cheerleader and our conscience. Even when we are grown, she never stops wanting the very best for us. The mother-child relationship goes beyond time and space.
The experience of motherhood has many facets: the glow of pregnancy; the fatigue of labor; the ecstasy of giving birth, seeing your baby’s face for the very first time; the challenge of living with a toddler; the challenge of living with a teenager and the bittersweet pangs of seeing your babies leave the nest. Yet motherhood doesn’t end there—grown children still need their moms and as our own mothers age, we find ourselves mothering the invincible woman who gave us life.
This book is filled with stories about all aspects of motherhood, some humorous, some poignant, some inspiring— because motherhood is funny, poignant and inspiring. Whether you are an expectant mother, a new mother, a mother with children at home, a mother of children long grown or even a grandmother—these stories are for you. They will inspire you, entertain you and remind you of your most important role of all: being a mom.
Some things about being a mom never change, but in today’s world, a mom has new and unique challenges. In this book, you will find stories about love, courage and wisdom, as well as stories about the lighter side of mothering— or of being mothered. In the same way that mothers over the ages have sat together and shared their experiences, you will enjoy the stories from mothers and about mothers showcased in this book.
Our goal in writing this book is to honor moms everywhere. We offer these stories in the hope that they will help moms to celebrate their lives. May this book be a gift of inspiration and love.
We would like to invite you to send us stories you would like to see published in future editions of
Chicken
Soup for the Soul.
We would also love to hear your reactions to the stories in this book. Please let us know what your favorite stories are and how they affected you.
Please send submissions to:
Chicken Soup for the Soul
P.O. Box 30880
Santa Barbara, CA 93130
fax: 805-563-2945
You can also visit the
Chicken Soup for the Soul
Web site at:
We hope you enjoy reading this book as much as we enjoyed compiling, editing and writing it.
M
otherhood: All love begins and ends there.
Robert Browning
L
ove is a fruit in season at all times, and within
reach of every hand.
Mother Teresa
When I was a new mommy, I invented a quiet little signal, two quick hand squeezes, that grew into our family’s secret “I love you.”
Long before she could debate the merits of pierced ears or the need to shave her legs, my daughter, Carolyn, would toddle next to me clasping my finger for that much-needed support to keep her from falling down.
Whether we were casually walking in the park or scurrying on our way to playgroup, if Carolyn’s tiny hand was in mine, I would tenderly squeeze it twice and whisper, “I love you.” Children love secrets, and little Carolyn was no exception. So, this double hand squeeze became our special secret. I didn’t do it all the time—just every so often when I wanted to send a quiet message of “I love you” to her from me.
The years flew by, and Carolyn started school. She was a big girl now, so there was no need for little secret signals anymore . . . or so I thought.
It was the morning of her kindergarten class show. Her class was to perform their skit before the entire Lower School, which would be a daunting experience. The big kids—all the way to sixth grade—would be sitting in the audience. Carolyn was nervous, as were all her little classmates.
As proud family and friends filed into the auditorium to take their seats behind the students, I saw Carolyn sitting nervously with her classmates. I wanted to reassure her, but I knew that anything I said would run the risk of making her feel uncomfortable.
Then I remembered our secret signal. I left my seat and walked over to her. Carolyn’s big brown eyes watched each of my steps as I inched closer. I said not a word, but leaned over and took her hand and squeezed it twice. Her eyes met mine, and I immediately knew that she recognized the message. She instantly returned the gesture giving my hand two quick squeezes in reply. We smiled at each other, and I took my seat and watched my confident little girl, and her class, perform beautifully.
Carolyn grew up and our family welcomed two younger brothers, Bryan and Christian. Through the years, I got more experienced at the mothering game, but I never abandoned the secret “I love you” hand squeeze.
Whether the boys were running on the soccer field for a big game or jumping out of the car on the day of a final exam, I always had the secret hand squeeze to send them my message of love and support. I learned that when over-sentimental words from parents are guaranteed to make kids feel ill at ease, this quiet signal was always appreciated and welcomed.
Three years ago, my daughter married a wonderful guy. Before the ceremony, while we were standing at the back of the church waiting to march down the aisle, I could hardly look at my little girl, now all grown up and wearing her grandmother’s wedding veil, for fear of crying.
There was so much I wanted to say to her. I wanted to tell her how proud of her I was. I wanted to tell her that I treasured being her mom, and I looked forward to all the future had in store for her. However, most important, I wanted to tell her that I loved her. But I was positive that if I said even one word, Carolyn and I would both dissolve into tears.
Then I remembered it—our secret signal. I left my place and walked back to Carolyn. As the organist began to play,
Ode to Joy,
I took Carolyn’s hand and quickly squeezed it twice. Our eyes met, and she returned the signal.
There were no tears, there were no words exchanged, just a secret “I love you” that I created one sunny afternoon, when I was a new mother.
I am no longer a new mother . . . but a new grandmother. Today, I was strolling with my little grandson, Jake. His tiny hand was holding on to my finger, and I couldn’t help remembering his mother’s hand in mine over thirty years ago. As we walked, I gave his hand two quick squeezes and whispered, “I love you.” He looked up and smiled.
LindaCarol Cherken
L
ove cures people—both the ones who give it
and the ones who receive it.
Dr. Karl Menninger
Samantha stood in the center of the shabby social services office wearing a threadbare pink sweat suit. The flickery fluorescent lighting illuminated shaggy boy-cut blonde hair, dirty fingernails, a runny nose and huge blue eyes ringed with dark, tired circles. Around the thumb jammed between her teeth, she stared up at me and asked, “Are you my new mom?”
My husband, Dan, and I had gone through all the usual contortions to have a second child. His and hers surgeries, artificial insemination. Nothing happened. I had always envisioned adopting, but my husband was unconvinced. Dan’s initial reservation about adoption was understandable given that, at the time, the evening news was filled with terrifying stories of anguished biological and adoptive parents fighting for the rights to be some little one’s “real” mom and dad. Still, we decided to move forward.
Our ten-year-old son, Matthew, was also a little slow to jump on the adoption bandwagon. He had been the center of our universe for a long time, and he liked it that way. He was also a typical kid in that he wanted to fit in and not be “different” in any way. We planned to adopt a baby from China, which especially concerned him; he feared that an Asian baby in our Caucasian midst might invite dreaded attention.
As part of the adoption agency screening process, a social worker came to interview Matthew, and we encouraged him to “just be honest.” So, with prepubescent eloquence, our son explained to the attentive social worker that he loved being an only child, that he didn’t want a sibling from another country, that he didn’t like Chinese rice, that people would stare at us if we had a Chinese baby, and that basically a little brother or sister would pretty much ruin his life. He was evangelistic in his passion, Galilean in his logic. Brilliant. When he was through, my husband and I watched the social worker back out of the driveway, wondering if she would even make it back to the office before setting fire to our application.
Miraculously, when the whole screening process was finished (references, fingerprints, credit and criminal checks, etc.) my husband and I were approved. My son remained skeptical, and my husband was still a bit nervous even as we settled down to wait. Then, on a bitter January morning we got the call.
The social worker told us about a little girl, suddenly available—a four-year-old white girl from New York— who had come into this world with cocaine humming in her veins. “How soon can you be here?” the social worker asked.
Our preliminary visit was to last about an hour or so. Taking Samantha’s hand in mine, I led her down the steps and out the door. We walked though a winter-bare park with Samantha on my shoulders. She got shy around Dan and wouldn’t accept a “pony ride” from him. She had no mittens and her icy little fingers squeezed my hands. Her chatter was nonstop and more than a little desperate. Her blue gaze focused over my shoulder, or off in the distance, but never settled on my face. Her eyes were both blank and wild, like a wary captive.
In the park, we stumbled upon a dry fountain and pitched our pennies in, making silent wishes. I wished for the chance to quell the quiet panic in her eyes.
