Read Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul (14 page)
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
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
Reprinted by permission of Mark Parisi. ©2004.
Near Misses and Good-Night Kisses
T
he 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
T
he 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
Reprinted by permission of Mark Parisi ©2004.
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.”