Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul (11 page)

With each passing day my talents grew: I became a baker of cookies, a sewer of Halloween costumes extraor-dinaire. I could braid hair in the time most people wash their faces. And I could smile even when I didn’t want to.

Where once my body had been my own to do with as I pleased, it now belonged to someone else. It became: a breast to nourish at, a shoulder to cry on, a lap to sit and cuddle upon. My lips became the kissers of boo-boos, my hips the transporters of small, squirmy bundles. My feet were now used to walk the floor at all hours of the night, my arms became a cradle. I grew eyes in the back of my head, and my hearing became supersonic.

Once upon a time my name was Peggy. Then I became a mother and had as many aliases as a con man. I became— at various times—Mm, Ma-ma, Ma, Mommie, Mom, Mother, MOTHER! And for a brief period of mental vexation, “Peg.”

My mind, which used to flourish with egocentric thoughts, now became filled with irrational ideations:
What if she falls out of the crib? What if he chokes on his food?
What if I do or say the wrong thing? How will I know I’m a good
parent? How will I know I’m a bad one?

My house, once so orderly and tidy became a disorderly jumble of toys and stuffed animals, dried peas and empty, strewn formula bottles; a carpet of clutter and chaos; a dwelling of disarray.

My heart, once only given to another, was now taken from me and filled to the brim, bursting with devotion and love.

I was a Mother. I was an icon. I’d done something no man had ever done, accomplished a feat so death defying and magical that many wouldn’t even attempt it. I became a Mother. And in so doing, I became all that I was, all that I ever wished to be.

Peggy Jaeger

Sibling Rivalry

When my wife, Deeptee, came home from the hospital with our second baby, she hired Meena, a live-in nurse, to come along and help out for the first few weeks. Having read up on sibling rivalry, my wife watched our eighteen-month-old daughter, Chinmya, for signs of jealousy or insecurity. But Chinmya adored her little brother from the start. She loved to help Meena feed and bathe the baby. She even offered to share her toys.

Several weeks passed and the mother of my two children, convinced that Chinmya was suffering no ill effects, decided she could manage without a nurse. As she watched Meena walk out to her car that last day, she heard an unmistakable cry of distress.

“Meena!” yelled Chinmya, running after her. “You forgot your baby!”

Deeptee and Vikrum Seth

Loving Her Best

I hold my breath as the bailiff calls out, “Hear ye, hear ye. The case of Jessica and Sarah Shouse versus their mother, Deborah, for alleged favoritism and discriminatory parenting practices.”

Behind me, the audience of mothers stirs and whispers. Across the aisle at the plaintiff’s table, Jessica and Sarah are squabbling over who gets to drink first from the single glass.

“Jessica Shouse, come forward,” the bailiff commands.

As Jessica stands, I see Sarah’s look of outrage. I know what she’s thinking: The oldest always gets to go first.

Jessica approaches the witness stand, carrying her notebook, glitter pen and a Sweet Valley High book.

“Tell us about the charges against your mother,” the judge says, her voice patient and sweet.

Jessica tactfully removes a wad of pink gum, which she places on the edge of her book.

“On January 10, she gave HER (she points at Sarah with an accusatory finger), two cookies, and I got only one. On February 2, Sarah hit me first, and I got in trouble when I hit her back. In March, Sarah sat in the front seat 118 times, while I got the front only 112 and a half times.”

“One hundred twelve and a half?” the judge asks.

“Sarah had a friend over, so she had to sit in the backseat with her. That only counts for half.” Jessica’s voice grows louder. “SHE went to summer camp while I stayed home. SHE got special watercolors, and I had to use broken crayons.”

“But you didn’t want to go to camp! You don’t even like art.” The words pour out of me. “Jessica would rather read,” I tell the judge. I turn to the audience. “I got her books instead of paints.”

Empathetic murmuring arises from the women in the courtroom, punctuated by “Shhhh,” and “Stop pinching.” The judge bangs her gavel. “Please, Ms. Shouse, restrain yourself.” Then she looks at my younger daughter.

“Sarah Shouse, will you now take the stand?”

Sarah clambers into the witness chair. The bailiff produces two phone books for her to sit on.

“What do you have to say, Sarah?” the judge asks.

“Jessica always gets to go first. She gets better clothes and more books and even though her room is messier than mine, she never, ever gets in trouble.”

I bite my lip, trying hard to contain myself. I glance behind me. “Hang in there,” one mom mouths. My hands are damp as I finally take the stand. All the mothers lean forward, straining to hear my every word.

“I have tried to be a good and fair mom. I blended my own organic baby food and bought only developmentally appropriate educational toys. I have offered my daughters coloring books, with and without lines. I have listened to them, played with them. I really did the best I could. I plead not guilty to the charges of Loving Her Best.”

The courtroom buzzes.

“Now, for my expert witnesses,” I say, my knees weak as I relinquish my seat.

My friend Jackie, a professor of literature at a local university, comes forward. “In grade school, my perfect sister made straight As while I made Cs.” She fingers her Phi Beta Kappa necklace. “If I hadn’t been so jealous of my sister, I never would have studied in high school and figured out how smart I am.”

Next, Linda, a martial arts instructor, tells how her bully of a big sister caused her to take karate. She thought she was getting even, but she ended up getting a career.

Carol, gorgeous in a flowing designer frock, describes how her sister got all the clothes. “That inspired me to open up a chain of boutiques,” Carol says.

The judge calls me over. “Are you implying that sibling rivalry has its up side?”

I nod.

“That’s a relief,” says the judge in a low tone. “My children are five and seven. Running this courtroom is a cinch compared to keeping things equal at home. . . .”

She bangs her gavel.

“Case dismissed.”

“You started it!” Jessica’s voice bangs into me, startling me out of my courtroom fantasy.

“Mom, she hit me. Plus, she’s hogging the slide.”

I open my eyes. Sarah sniffles back righteous tears as she snuggles next to me on the park bench. Only minutes ago, Jessica had patiently instructed Sarah on the art of pumping the swing. What happened?

“Let’s go home girls, “ I say wearily.

“It’s my turn to sit in the front!” Sarah proclaims.

“No, it’s mine.”

“Girls,” I make my voice stern, “come here right now.”

For a moment, they are both still. Then Jessica reaches out and takes Sarah’s hand. The sight of them, standing united, ready to stick together, fills me with a deep love. I watch them walk toward me, Sarah trying to match her sister’s stride. As they get close, I hold out my arms. There is plenty of room for both inside.

Deborah Shouse

Motherhood 101

At a recent neighborhood get-together, I was easily the oldest female there. Every other woman had young kids who were racing around, playing, laughing, occasionally generating shrill sounds that made their mothers cringe with embarrassment. One mom ordered her son to settle down, then quickly apologized. I assured her that he was just being a normal kid and that I was actually enjoying all the commotion. She didn’t buy it. I said that children grow up way too fast, and suddenly they are gone. I explained that my husband and I had an empty nest: Our “baby” is twenty-seven, our oldest is thirty-one.

She asked, and I told her a little about my job and a lot about my four children. I shared that all four of our fledglings had tested their wings and moved to other parts of the country, that it was really hard to have them so far away, but that it made us feel good to know they were happily living in places that they had chosen for school, career or other unique opportunities. Fortunately, we manage to see all of them, plus our granddaughters, about three times a year.

I asked my neighbor how she spends her days. Almost apologetically, she stated that before she had children, she had an exciting professional career that kept her traveling all over North America, but that she was now a full-time homemaker, a “domestic engineer.” She acknowledged that some days were tiring and monotonous, but stressed that it was mostly challenging and fun. She “couldn’t imagine” not being home with her kids every day. I told her that I couldn’t think of anything more important than raising a family. She seemed relieved that I didn’t judge her negatively for being a stay-at-home mom. The truth is that I envied her immensely.

I had to fight off guilt over having had “latch-key kids.” In fact, I felt like crying. Sometimes I miss our children terribly, and I’d give anything to recapture those wasted hours I spent working late in the office or those hours I spent in class instead of being at home with them.

That night I phoned “my baby.” My voice cracked the second I heard him say hello. “Mom! What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing, honey,” I lied. “I just miss you, I guess.”

“I miss you, too, Mom,” David answered, “but something else is going on. What’s the matter?”

“I’m being silly,” I confessed. “It’s just that I saw all these young kids next door, and I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that I wasn’t there when you got home from school every day. I’m sorry that I was gone at night sometimes too, when I had classes. I’d give anything to do it all over again and spend more time with you guys.”

“Darn it, Mom. We
never
felt neglected!
Quality
of time is what counts. Some of my best memories are stuff we did together, even just sitting around talking. I can’t think of any better mom I could have had, working or not! Never feel guilty! You did exactly what you needed to do.”

Dave certainly let me have it. How glad I am that my kids feel comfortable enough to chew me out when I deserve it! I felt a million times better after we hung up. Dave’s scolding would have been enough, but he obviously called his sister. Three days later, I received a priceless gift from Alyson in the mail. It was a typed paper that read:

Just a few of the wonderful things my mom taught me . . .

Support your kids’ dreams, even if that means they
move away

Rescue baby birds and squirrels

Love hearts, Ziggy, and teddy bears

Sing aloud, dance for joy, laugh with delight, smile
big

Write

Learn to play music

Value fairness, kindness, honesty, and equality

Keep things in perspective

Surprise your kids with notes in their lunch boxes

Appreciate the simple things and know what really
matters

Believe in yourself

You can achieve anything, no matter what the
barriers

Help others less fortunate

Make pancakes in funny shapes

Grow and learn

Take family walks in the moonlight

Be sentimental

Drop everything to race outside and see a sunset

Be strong and independent

Look for the good in people and circumstances

Never feel guilty

Teach by example

Work to make a difference

Root for the underdog

Forgive

Siblings can be your best friends

Be loyal

Be silly

Take care of yourself

Be healthy

Treasure friends

Don’t give up easily on commitments you make

Stay up late at night to talk with your kids even if
you are tired

Feel lucky buying groceries

Stop to watch flocks

Cherish life—it is precious

Thank God for everything you have

Count and recount your blessings

Hug and say I love you a lot to the people you love

Put your family first

WOW!
Did I teach my kids all
that
?

Karen L. Waldman with Alyson Powers

What I Want Most for You, My Child

My son,

You sit before me at the kitchen table laboring over your ABCs. Your five-year-old brow is puckered in concentration, your pink tongue peeks out of your mouth. As usual you are fully immersed in the moment.

Yesterday you followed a gaily colored butterfly as it flitted from bush to bush. The day before that you were beside yourself in excitement as you romped in a mud puddle.

For you, who have changed your father’s and my life in ways you couldn’t imagine, what do I want most, my child?