Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul

  And asked me please to share your fun,

  I’d say, “A little later, Son.”

  I’d tuck you in all safe at night

  And hear your prayers, turn out the light,

  Then tiptoe softly to the door...

  I wish I’d stayed a minute more.

  For life is short, the years rush past...

  A little boy grows up so fast.

  No longer is he at your side,

  His precious secrets to confide.

  The picture books are put away,

  There are no longer games to play,

  No good-night kiss, no prayers to hear,

  That all belongs to yesteryear.

  My hands, once busy, now are still.

  The days are long and hard to fill.

  I wish I could go back and do

  The little things you asked me to!

  Author Unknown

  Submitted by Eleanor Newbern

  Running Away

  On a very hectic day when my husband and I were busy going in a hundred directions, our four-and-a-half–year-old son, Justin Carl, had to be reprimanded for getting into mischief. After several attempts, my husband George finally told him to stand in the corner. He was very quiet but wasn’t too happy about it. Finally, after a few moments, he said, “I’m going to run away from home.”

  My first reaction was surprise, and his words angered me. “You are?” I blurted. But as I turned to look at him, he looked like an angel, so small, so innocent, with his face so sad.

  As my heart felt his pain, I remembered a moment in my own childhood when I spoke those words and how unloved and lonely I felt. He was saying so much more than just his words. He was crying from within, “Don’t you dare ignore me. Please notice me! I’m important too. Please make me feel wanted, unconditionally loved and needed.”

  “Okay, Jussie, you can run away from home,” I tenderly whispered as I started picking out clothes. “Well, we’ll need pj’s, your coat...”

  “Mama,” he said, “what are you doin’?”

  “We’ll also need my coat and nightgown.” I packed these items into a bag and placed them by the front door. “Okay, Jussie, are you sure you want to run away from home?”

  “Yeah, but where are you goin’?”

  “Well, if you’re going to run away from home, then Mama’s going with you, because I would never want you to be alone. I love you too much, Justin Carl.”

  We held each other while we talked. “Why do you want to come with me?”

  I looked into his eyes. “Because I love you, Justin. My life would never be the same if you went away. So I want to make sure you’ll be safe. If you do go, I will go with you.”

  “Can Daddy come?”

  “No, Daddy has to stay home with your brothers, Erickson and Trevor, and Daddy has to work and take care of the house while we’re gone.”

  “Can Freddi [the hamster] come?”

  “No, Freddi has to stay here, too.”

  He thought for a while and said, “Mama, can we stay home?”

  “Yes, Justin, we can stay home.”

  “Mama,”

  “Yes, Justin?”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too, honey. How about you help me make some popcorn?”

  “All right.”

  In that moment I knew the wondrous gift of motherhood I had been given, that the sacred responsibilities to help develop a child’s sense of security and self-esteem are nothing to be taken lightly. I realized that in my arms I held the precious gift of childhood; a beautiful piece of clay willing and wanting to be cuddled and magnificently molded into a confident adult masterpiece. I learned that as a mother I should never “run away” from the opportunity to show my children they are wanted, important, lovable and the most precious gift from God.

  Lois Krueger

  “I said I’m running away! Shouldn’t somebody be warming up the car?”

  Reprinted with permission from Dave Carpenter.

  Taking a Break

  Being a working woman can be tough, but holding a job and having children is even tougher.

  There’s a story about a mother with three active boys who were playing cops and robbers in the back yard after dinner one summer evening.

  One of the boys “shot” his mother and yelled, “Bang, you’re dead.” She slumped to the ground and when she didn’t get up right away, a neighbor ran over to see if she had been hurt in the fall.

  When the neighbor bent over, the overworked mother opened one eye and said, “Shhh. Don’t give me away. It’s the only chance I get to rest.”

  The Best of Bits & Pieces

  “Well, somebody better wake her up. It’s past time to go home.”

  Reprinted with permission from Peggy Andy Wyatt.

  Help Wanted—The Ideal Mother

  The transition into motherhood can be tough on anyone.

  “I just wasn’t cut out to be a good mother,” says the weary voice of my friend on the telephone. “I can’t get the baby to sleep through the night. I scream too much at my toddler when he gets into things. And my six-year-old is always whining that she doesn’t have enough to do. At least in the office I have someone to teach me the job and my evenings and weekends off.”

  I understand her completely because I am also a mother. The difficulty isn’t just that first transition, either. It’s the ongoing reshaping of pieces of a personality and a way of living to become the kind of mother a child needs at each stage of his or her life.

  For example, a job description for the kind of person who would be an ideal mother for a baby might read like this:

  Wanted —Easygoing, relaxed, loving type to care for infant. Should enjoy rocking, cuddling, be able to hold baby patiently for 20-minute feedings every three or four hours without fidgeting. Light sleeper, early riser. No degree necessary. Must take all shifts, seven-day week. No vacation unless can arrange to have own mother as temporary substitute. No opportunity to advance.

  A year and a half later, the ideal candidate for the job of mothering the same child would match this description:

  Wanted—Athlete in top condition to safeguard tireless toddler. Needs quick reflexes, boundless energy, infinite patience. ESP helpful.Knowledge of first aid essential. Must be able to drive, cook, phone, work despite constant distractions. Workday,15hours.Nocoffee or lunch breaks unless child naps. Would consider pediatric nurse with Olympic background.

  In another 18 months, the same mother should be able to meet these qualifications:

  Position Open—Expert in early childhood education to provide stimulating, loving, creative, individualized learning environment for preschooler. Should have experience in art, music, recreation,be able to speak one foreign language.Training in linguistics, psychology and Montessori desirable. Two hours off five days a week when nursery school is in session and child is well.

  Job stability improves somewhat when a child is between 6 and 12, and the mothers who cope most easily meet these qualifications:

  Good Opportunity—For expert in recreation, camping, Indian arts, all sports. Should be able to referee. Must be willing to be den mother, room mother, block mother. Public relations skills essential. Should be able to deal effectively with teachers, PTA officers, other parents. Knowledge of sex education, new math required. Must have no objections to mud, insect collections, pets, neighbor’s kids.

  A mother changes occupations again when her child reaches 13 or 14 and must face up to new requirements:

  Job Available—For specialist in adolescent psychology, with experience in large-quantity cooking. Tolerance is chief requirement. Slight hearing loss helpful or must provide own ear plugs. Must be unflappable. Should be able to sense when presence is embarrassing to child and disappear.

  After 18 years as a working mother, a woman is qualified for only one more job:

  Urgently Needed—Financier to provide money, clothes, music, wheels to collegian. No advice necessary. Position may l
ast indefinitely. Ample time left to take income-producing work.

  Like most want ads, there are some things these work descriptions leave out: (1) A mother who has more than one child must usually hold down two or more of these posts simultaneously; (2) those who handle the jobs best work themselves permanently out of a job, and (3) there are greater rewards than anyone could ever imagine.

  THE FAMILY

  CIRCUS

  Joan Beck

  Submitted by Jeanette Lisefski

  “You used to WORK before you were married, didn’t you, Mommy?”

  Reprinted with special permission of King Features Syndicate.

  Graduation Day

  A mother is not a person to lean on but a person to make leaning unnecessary.

  Dorothy Canfield Fisher

  Today Cathy will be going to kindergarten. Cathy is my youngest and I am feeling nostalgic. If I had the courage to admit it, I’d say I’m feeling sad and a little scared. Why am I feeling this way? I didn’t feel sad when Renata, her older sister, went to school. Why, I was excited and rejoiced about her new freedom.

  It seems like yesterday that Cathy was such a quiet, contented baby. She was always a real joy to have around. She played quietly with her stuffed animals or our family dog. She and the dog loved to hide together under the blanket tent I’d throw over the big lounge chair.

  Her life and mine would dramatically change now. She would be part of the world out there. I would have a harder time protecting her from the bumps and scrapes of life.

  Perhaps I was being overprotective now because Cathy had been diagnosed at three as having a rare disease. No one but the family knew or even saw anything different about her.

  I’m about to leave the kitchen to awaken Cathy for her big day. But here she comes, all bright eyes and smiles, dressed in a new red plaid skirt and blouse. She gives me a big hug as we say our good mornings.

  “Good morning, you’re up early!” I greet her.

  “Morning, Mom,” is mumbled into my apron because of her big hug. “See Mom, I got dressed all by myself and even brushed my hair.” She proudly twirls a pirouette to show me.

  “But I can’t put this ribbon in my hair.” She hands me the brush, rubber band and red ribbon. I am amazed at how efficient she is this particular morning.

  As I tend to her hair and ribbon, I ask her once more, “Would you like me to walk you to school this first day?”

  I get the same answer as yesterday, “No, Mom, I can find my way all by myself. Renata, Leslie and I walked to the school yesterday and they showed me how to find the path through the woods right to the playground.

  “And Mom, they have it all finished now and everything is brand new—the slide, swings and basketball hoops. It’s going to be great!”

  My reply to her enthusiasm is, “Stand still so I can finish your hair ribbon.”

  Then I gently push her toward the table. She quickly slides into her chair and attacks her breakfast. I turn back to the kitchen cupboards and take a deep breath, but it doesn’t melt the lump in my throat or dull the ache in my chest.

  I glance at the clock. “You can’t leave before 8:30, so just slow down and chew your food.”

  In a few minutes she has finished the last drop of milk. Without prompting, she goes off to brush her teeth and comes back with her sweater.

  “Is it time to go now?” she pleads.

  “When this hand reaches 6,” I point out to her on the clock.

  I tentatively venture for the umpteenth time, “You’re sure you don’t want me to walk you to school?”

  “No, Mom, I want to go alone.” She goes out onto the deck to call to the dog and check the back yard.

  “Is it time now?” She is hopping up and down.

  With a sigh, I say, “Yes, dear.”

  I give her a big lingering hug, and off she races down the split-level stairs and out the front door. Standing at the top of our stairs, I can watch through the window. She is running down the sidewalk. Then suddenly she stops, turns and races back toward the house. “Oh, no,” I think, expecting to have to change out of slippers for a walk to school after all.

  The front door bangs open and up the stairs she flies to throw her little arms around me and press her cheek into my tummy. The long tight hug ends as she turns her eyes up to mine and seriously proclaims, “You’ll be all right, Mom. I’ll be home at noon.” Then off she dashes into her new world of school adventures, excited and happy to be graduating from babyhood. My misty eyes follow her progress to the end of our walk. She turns around again and waves to me. I wave back and find I can now smile.

  The lump in my chest has melted as I think about her display of love. Yes, I will be all right as I go on to my own adventures. This is my graduation day, too.

  Mary Ann Detzler

  PEANUTS. Reprinted by permission of United Feature Syndicate, Inc.

  A Mother’s Letter to the World

  Dear World:

  My son starts school today. It’s going to be strange and new to him for a while. And I wish you would sort of treat him gently.

  You see, up to now, he’s been king of the roost. He’s been boss of the back yard. I have always been around to repair his wounds, and to soothe his feelings.

  But now—things are going to be different.

  This morning, he’s going to walk down the front steps, wave his hand and start on his great adventure that will probably include wars and tragedy and sorrow.

  To live his life in the world he has to live in will require faith and love and courage.

  So, World, I wish you would sort of take him by his young hand and teach him the things he will have to know. Teach him—but gently, if you can. Teach him that for every scoundrel there is a hero; that for every crooked politician there is a dedicated leader; that for every enemy there is a friend. Teach him the wonders of books.

  Give him quiet time to ponder the eternal mystery of birds in the sky, bees in the sun, and flower son the green hill. Teach him it is far more honorable to fail than to cheat.

  Teach him to have faith in his own ideas, even if everyone else tells him they are wrong. Teach him to sell his brawn and brains to the highest bidder, but never to put a price on his heart and soul.

  Teach him to close his ears to a how ling mob ...and to stand and fight if he thinks he’s right.

  Teach him gently,World,but don’t coddle him,because only the test of fire makes fine steel.

  This is a big order,World, but see what you can do. He’s such a nice little fellow.

  Author Unknown

  To Give the Gift of Life

  You had your eyes open a little while ago, but now you just want to sleep. I wish you would open your eyes and look at me. My child, my precious, my angel sent from heaven... this will be the last time we are together. As I hold you close to me and feel your tiny body warm against my own, I look at you and look at you... I feel as if my eyes can’t hold enough of you. For a human being so small, there is a lot of you to look at ...in such a short time. In a few minutes, they will come and take you away from me. But for now, this is our time together and you belong to only me.

  Your cheeks are still bruised from your birth—they feel so soft to my fingertip, like the wing of a butterfly. Your eyebrows are tightly clenched in concentration—are you dreaming? You have too many eyelashes to count and yet I want to engrave them all in my mind. I don’t want to forget anything about you. Is it all right that you are breathing so rapidly? I don’t know anything about babies—maybe I never will. But I know one thing for sure—I love you with all my heart. I love you so much and there is no way to tell you. I hope that someday you will understand. I am giving you away because I love you. I want you to have in your life all the things I could never have in mine—safety, compassion, joy and acceptance. I want you to be loved for who you are.

  I wish I could squish you back inside of me—I’m not ready to let you go. If I could just hold you like this forever and never have to face tom
orrow—would everything be all right? No, I know everything will only be all right if I let you go. I just didn’t expect to feel this way—I didn’t know you would be so beautiful and so perfect. I feel as if my heart is being pulled from my body right through my skin. I didn’t know I would feel so much pain.

  Tomorrow your mom and dad are coming to the hospital to pick you up, and you will start your life. I pray that they will tell you about me. I hope they will know how brave I have been. I hope they will tell you how much I loved you because I won’t be around to tell you myself. I will cry every day somewhere inside of me because I will miss you so much. I hope I will see you again someday— but I want you to grow up to be strong and beautiful and to have everything you want. I want you to have a home and a family. I want you to have children of your own someday that are as beautiful as you are. I hope that you will try to understand and not be angry with me.

  The nurse comes into the room and reaches out her arms for you. Do I have to let you go? I can feel your heart beating rapidly and you finally open your eyes. You look into my eyes with trust and innocence, and we lock hearts. I give you to the nurse. I feel as if I could die. Good-bye, my baby—a piece of my heart will be with you always and forever. I love you, I love you...I love you...

  Patty Hansen

  Mother’s Day

  One day while in my early 30s, I sat in a Midwestern church and burst into tears. It was Mother’s Day, and ladies of all shapes and sizes, young and old, were being applauded by their families and the whole congregation. Each received a lovely rose and returned to the pews, where I sat empty-handed. Sorry to my soul, I was convinced I had missed my chance at that great adventure, that selective sorority called “motherhood.”

  All that changed one February when, pushing 40 and pushing with all my might, I brought forth Gabriel Zacharias. It took 24 hours of labor for me to produce that little four-pound, eight-ounce bundle of joy. No wonder those ladies got flowers!