Mom's Little Angel

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Mom’s Little Angel STORIES OF THE SPECIAL BOND B E T W E E N M O T H E R S A N D DAU G H T E R S

G R E G O RY E . L A N G

T O T H E WO M E N I N M Y L I F E — JILL, MEAGAN, AND LINLEY

He that would the daughter win, must with the mother first begin. —English Proverb

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Contents Epigraph Author’s Note

iii viii

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Like Mother, Like Daughter

87 95

Introduction

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Praying for Mazol

Mom’s Shadow

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Just One Hour

99

To See the World

11

Chocolate Promise

A Perfect Wedding

15

A True Gift

The Mothers’ Circle

21

Pretty Dresses

117

Birthday Surprise

25

The Sweetest Reunion

123

Fraidy Cat

29

Angels Whisper

129

Momma Magic

37

A Girl Scout Sacrifice

137

A Matching Pair

43

A Dream Come True

141

Flintstone Feet

47

Bonded for Life

149

Notes of Love

53

A Daughter’s Hero

153

Answered Prayers

55

Letting Go

157

A Legacy of Letters

59

Epilogue

165

Reunion

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Tell Me Your Stories

169

Special Breakfast

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Acknowledgments

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About the Author

credits cover copyright About the Publisher

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TA P E A P H O T O O F YO U A N D YO U R L OV E D O N E H E R E .

Author’s Note

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his book is based on a collection of stories about mothers and daughters. Simply put, I could not have written it without the generous permission of daughters and moms to tell their personal and heartwarming stories. They also granted me permission to edit their stories for the sake of consistency in creating a book that would be enjoyable for all to read. Stories were sent to me by traditional mail and e-mail, collected through my website, or told to me in recorded interviews, both face-toface and by telephone. As you might guess, the writing and storytelling styles I encountered varied considerably. Sometimes English was not the teller’s primary language, and in those cases editorial changes were all the more essential to create a brief but readable story for my readers. I revised all but a few of the written and recorded stories in order to get to the heart of the story with as much economy and emotion as

I believed necessary to produce an engaging chapter. In every case, however, I stayed true to the original mother-daughter story, even sending many edited stories back to the storyteller for review and input. I hope that those who read their own stories in the following pages will be satisfied with how they are told here, woven together with other positive messages about mother-daughter relationships. I photographed family and friends to illustrate this book. No relationship between the models and the stories is implied by the placement of a photograph before or after a particular story. Finally, real names were not used in this book in order to respect the privacy of all the persons portrayed within each story.

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Introduction

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lmost immediately after the publication of my first book, Why a Daughter Needs a Dad: 100 Reasons, which I wrote for my daughter Meagan, I began to receive e-mail from readers asking, “What about moms?” Some were simply curious about whether a daughter-mom book was on my radar screen; others were rather indignant that I had not written it first. All agreed that mothers and daughters share a special relationship that deserves to be honored in a book. Of course, I was well aware of the importance of moms in every child’s life—after all, I have a mother of my own. Memories of my childhood always include the many things my mother did to make sure I was well cared for and happy. She cooked my favorite foods, tended to my cuts and bruises, drove me to baseball practice, helped with my homework assignments, wiped away my tears, and endured the existential drama of my teen years, all the while making sure that not one of her other four children was overlooked. MOM’S LITTLE ANGEL

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The truth be told, my mother did many things for me—most remembered, some forgotten—that taken one at a time may seem somewhat inconsequential. But when all those things she did are taken together, the sum total staggers the mind. While I cannot think of a single superhero moment, I can think of thousands of little moments with my mom that added up like coins in a jar. Neither I nor my siblings can fathom the number and range of ways in which our mother influenced the outcome of our lives. Further proof of the importance of moms, especially in a daughter’s life, came to me courtesy of my child Meagan. She and I enjoyed a close and playful relationship when she was a little girl, but things began to change as she entered her teen years. Soon it was her mother she looked to first and shared secrets with. It wasn’t me but her mother who became the parent Meagan looked to for consolation, protection, and understanding. Theirs was a language of shoes, seasonal clothing, reality television, and desserts that contained not a single calorie. Their relationship was one that at times I could not understand and was even jealous of, and yet I understood clearly that the two of them needed and deserved it. Eventually, then, I wrote the book Why a Daughter Needs a Mom: 100 Reasons for Becky, my ex-wife, and my daughter Meagan. And just as had happened after my first book was released, letters from mothers and daughters began appearing in my e-mail. Daughters wrote of how their mothers had always been there for them, holding their

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hand when they were afraid, tucking them in at night, baking green bread or cookies for Saint Patrick’s Day, mending Barbie clothes, helping with weddings, and coaching them during labor, never skipping a beat while wiping away perspiration or calming a hyperventilating husband. I read tales of mothers who sent change-of-address notices to Santa and the Easter Bunny—and mothers who set aside the enjoyment of their retirement years to care for a sick grandbaby with needs too great for an ordinary day care center to handle. I also sat back and thought about my wife and how she has helped me not only with my stepdaughter, Linley, but with Meagan too. Jill has a talent for bringing a laugh to tense moments, for teaching me to ignore the pesky things the girls do that used to get my goat, and for gently advising me in a way that sinks into my thick male skull rather than bouncing off it. I jokingly say (well, sometimes seriously) that she is helping me undo the damage I did to myself living so many years as a single dad with a willful daughter. Drawing from the daughter-mom correspondence and my observations of the three women in my household, I want to pay tribute here to mothers and daughters for the beautiful relationships they share and for the ways they enrich the lives of those nearest them. For as much as I’d like to believe that I’m an awesome dad and that my daughter and stepdaughter have bonded with me solely because of my interactions with them, I know the truth is that I could never have become as close to either of them if not for the help and influence of their mothers.

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Moms, I hope that when you finish this book you will experience the gratifying sensation that comes after receiving affirmation and applause from your child. And daughters, after you’ve turned the last page, I hope you’ll give your mom a call to say, “Thanks for everything.” And I hope you will have a better idea of what you are in for when you become a mother too.

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It wasn’t the big events of our lives that bonded us together. It was the

simple tenderness only a mom can show that nourished and enriched our relationship.

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Mom’s Shadow Tara tried to read the morning paper but found turning the pages difficult with the arms of a three-year-old wrapped tightly around her neck. Not to mention the head with long dirty blond hair that rested on her chest and blocked the view of the headlines and articles. Awakened by the sounds of her two older sisters leaving for school, Sophie had climbed out of bed and immediately into her mother’s lap. She had practically become her mom’s shadow, never letting Tara out of her sight if she could help it. Tara loved her daughter, but had recently complained to her husband about Sophie’s clinging. It was hard enough for

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I am the mother of an eighteen-month-old baby girl. Every day is new and exciting because my daughter learns and does something new that makes me think my life is only just beginning. a mother of three to get anything done, but now it was nearly impossible with a child who insisted on riding on her hip most of the day. Even going to the bathroom alone had become a luxury. Frustrated, Tara finally put the newspaper down and contemplated prying her child away. But then she remembered a time a few years back when she naïvely thought her older daughters would always want her affection and attention, a time when she was focused on what she believed a mother was supposed to do, like potty training in accordance with developmental timetables and making sure the girls knew their ABCs before entering kindergarten, instead of just having goofy playtime on the floor. And then there were all those times when she had told her older daughters to “wait just a minute,” only to find that when she was ready and available, her attention was no longer wanted or needed. She remembered the night when her oldest, April, no longer wanted her mother to sing her a lullaby before she fell asleep each night. It was a

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ritual Tara did with all three daughters, each of whom had her own favorite good-night song. April was the first to give up that ritual; suddenly she preferred to yell good-night from her room before shutting her door and turning the lights out. For too many nights Tara had walked past April’s closed bedroom door trying to accept that her oldest child had pulled away. It had been more than a year since they held hands in public. The reassurance from other moms that all children eventually return to the bosom gave her hope while she held back tears watching April leave for school in the morning. The ritual good-bye hug now too was relegated to their past. Tara remembered that just that morning she had stood in the door watching April skip confidently toward the school bus. With crossed fingers, she had hoped her oldest daughter would look back and wave, but she didn’t. Tara looked over Sophie’s head at the newspaper once more. Suddenly she had lost all interest in local news, restaurant reviews, and fashion tips. She felt Sophie’s heart beating against her chest and the sleeping child’s slow breathing blowing across her neck. This was her baby, her last child. Tara didn’t know when it would happen, but she knew in that moment that one day Sophie, like her older sisters, would not want to be held this close again. Tara looked at their combined shadows spilling across the kitchen tile floor and pulled Sophie a little closer—close enough to ensure that not even a single beam of the morning sunlight could come between them.

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My mother taught me to live against the flow, to embrace my uniqueness and rejoice in who I am. I’ll always love her for that.

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To See the World If ever Dot could not find her daughter in the usual places about the house and yard, she knew just where to look next. Stephanie would always be in the basement, hunched over a desk and poring through the old travel magazines that for some reason had never been thrown away. “Why do you keep coming down here to look at those old things?” Dot once asked. “I’m trying to decide where to go first,” Stephanie replied. “I’m going to see the world one day.”

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Dot shook her head and climbed the stairs, headed back to the chores of running a household and managing a family, distantly remembering her own unfulfilled wanderlust as a teen all those years before. The day Stephanie came home from school with a stack of papers detailing a field trip to Washington, D.C., Dot remembered that she too had once wanted to visit the capital city, but she had never gone there. “We’ll make it work,” she said to Stephanie, without giving her husband a moment to raise any objections. Soon Dot was squeezing a part-time job in between running errands and preparing meals. She saved all her earnings to fund the school trip for Stephanie. When Stephanie came home from Washington and spread her many amateur photographs of school friends and historic buildings and monuments on the dining room table for all to see, Dot couldn’t keep her eyes off her daughter’s infectious smile. She heard little of the details as Stephanie explained this and that about Washington. Instead, Dot heard the delight of a child who had seen a dream come true. Dot kept her part-time job and over the next few years saved her earnings to put toward other trips Stephanie would eventually take, including a visit to the World’s Fair in Knoxville and a senior trip to Disney World. Dot began working even more hours and practicing an extra measure of thrift after Stephanie went to college—there was the summer study abroad program to pay for too.

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Reading the postcards Stephanie sent from London, Paris, Rome, and Madrid, Dot couldn’t help but remember all the times she had found her daughter with her nose stuck in yet another dusty magazine, reading an article about places to see in Europe. Dot had saved those magazines to remind herself of places she once wanted to see and had never been able to bring herself to throw them away. Each postcard ended with “Wish you were here!” and Dot saved them all, tucking them in between the pages of the old articles about the very places Stephanie was exploring. Maybe she would go to those places one day too, Dot hoped, and see the same things her daughter had seen. Stephanie went on to a successful career shortly after graduating from college. Traveling extensively for her work, she accumulated frequent-travel awards along the way. She saved them all, awaiting an occasion she had been planning for years. Dot answered the phone one afternoon. “Hi, Mom, it’s me,” Stephanie said. “We need to get you a passport. Now it’s your turn to see the world.”

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A Perfect Wedding Whitney stood before the mirror getting ready for the biggest day of her life thus far, her wedding day. She had insisted on planning the wedding herself, thinking that was the only way to make sure it was perfect. She’d even turned down her mother’s offer to help. “I have it under control,” she remembered saying. She studied her reflection. Her hair was done just as she had instructed, and her dress was beautiful, yet something didn’t seem quite right. Her mind began to race: What had she forgotten? What could possibly go wrong?

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“Something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue!” she shouted frantically. There was a light touch on her arm. “It’s okay, I’ll take care of it,” a soothing voice said. Whitney turned and looked into her mother’s reassuring green eyes. “We have to be at the church in less than an hour!” Whitney said, nearly hyperventilating. Suddenly the perfect wedding she had been planning for months seemed in jeopardy, and she’d have only herself to blame. “Let’s look in here,” Darla said, opening Whitney’s jewelry box. Sorting through the trinkets inside, she pulled out a pearl bracelet, one Whitney had had for years but hadn’t worn in a long time. “Something old,” she said while slipping it around her daughter’s wrist, “representing continuity. Now follow me.” Darla took her daughter by the hand and led her toward her bedroom. “Have a seat,” she said, pointing toward her bed before disappearing into her closet. Moments later Darla reappeared carrying an old cardboard box. Taking her place beside Whitney on the bed, Darla opened the lid and they peered inside. It was filled with keepsakes from Whitney’s parents’ wedding twentysix years earlier. Darla pulled out a white silk sachet, opened it, and held up a powder blue garter. “Something borrowed and something blue,” she said. Whitney giggled and sheepishly took the garter, her bridal nightmare beginning to fade away. “And what about something new?” she asked.

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“That we have to think about,” Darla said. She looked at her watch. “Let’s talk about it on the way to the church.” As they stood to leave the bedroom, Whitney caught her foot in the hem of her dress and nearly toppled over. “Perhaps some new shoes,” Darla laughed, “with really high heels.” While Whitney and Dad waited in the car, each trying to calm the other’s nerves, Darla scurried through the mall, a single shoe in hand, trying to find a suitable replacement pair with a taller heel. Finally finding a pair, she purchased them and ran back to the car. “Something new!” she said triumphantly as she climbed in. As the bride sure-footedly took her first steps down the aisle, her eyes moved first to her father’s smile, then to her groom’s, and finally to the face of her beloved mother—the woman who had rescued the day, just as she had so many times before.

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I hope my daughters will come home when all of our husbands are away so that we can still have

“Girls Night” once in a while.

Men have never understood me as well as another woman can. And no woman has ever understood me as well as my mom does.

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The Mothers’ Circle Although Frances had stayed busy being a supportive and attentive mom while Brenda was young, she began to find other things to fill her days after her daughter became an independent teen. She spent time working as a volunteer reader at the public library and as an occasional substitute teacher at the elementary school Brenda once attended; eventually she became an active volunteer at the children’s shelter. But after Brenda left home, Frances found the most pleasure amid a gathering of other emptynest mothers.

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She joined a group, the Mothers’ Circle, a group for mothers of grown children who wanted to share the events of their lives, as well as their crafting talents, baked goods, and photographs of grandchildren, with like-minded and similarly situated women. “How can you stand to quilt or play bridge all day?” Brenda asked one day after her mother remarked that she had been a member of the Mothers’ Circle for nearly ten years. “It’s being with the other mothers that I enjoy,” Frances explained, hinting at how obvious that fact ought to be. “We fulfill our purpose by looking out for each other.” Brenda shook her head. In her late thirties and with no children of her own yet, she didn’t understand what “looking out for each other” meant. After all, her mother had proven over and over throughout her life that she was quite competent and capable. “Someday you’ll understand,” Frances promised with a smile. A few more years passed, and then a sudden illness took Frances in the waning summer. Brenda, an only child, was left to plan a funeral ser vice, attend to the family matters that arise at such times, and console her grieving father. He was barely able to get through the day and needed her company now more than ever. With so much to handle alone, and so little time, she found herself feeling overwhelmed. As she sat at her mother’s dining room table, staring at a long list of relatives who needed to be called about the funeral service and thinking about the covered dishes of food in the kitchen that needed to be cleaned or put away, tears came to Brenda’s eyes.

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She wondered if she could get through this day. A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Opening it, Brenda found three elderly women standing on the porch. “We’re here to help you, darling,” one said. Without waiting for an invitation, they came into the house and, after a brief explanation, rolled up their sleeves. They were from the Mothers’ Circle. One mother took care of the kitchen, the second started a load of laundry and then left to go to the dry cleaner, and the third sat down with the list of phone numbers and took over the task of calling all the relatives. Grateful, and somewhat bemused, Brenda finally asked, “Why are you doing all this?” “Honey, it’s what mothers do—look out for each other,” she said, reaching out to pat Brenda’s hand. “Besides, your mother did so much for each of us over the years, we’ll surely be helping you for a long time.” And just as Frances had promised, Brenda finally understood. Her mother was there to help her even though she was gone.

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She was my housekeeper, my personal chef, my chauffeur, my doctor. She was an amazing mother.

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Birthday Surprise It was finally Monday afternoon and time to go home. Exhausted from a long day of work, Charlotte chided herself for ever thinking it was a good idea to let Roxie talk her into having her twelfth birthday party on her actual birthday, even though it happened to be a Sunday night. Charlotte dreaded what awaited her at home. Earlier that morning, as she looked for her favorite coffee mug, she had opened the dishwasher full of what was supposed to be clean dishes only to find that sometime during the night someone had thrown in a

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dirty drinking glass, one apparently still half full of milk. And there were the fingerprint smears of purple cake icing on the countertops and the refrigerator door, the gift wrapping paper and confetti (whose idea was that?) strewn about the den, and the residue from the Pez candy that had crunched under her feet. She dreaded the thought of seeing what additional mess awaited her upon her return home. You see, not only had Roxie talked her mother into allowing her to have the birthday party on a Sunday night, but she had also convinced Charlotte that three of her guests absolutely had to spend the night so they could go to the neighborhood pool together the next day. As Charlotte pushed her key into the door, she envisioned wet towels on her hardwood floors and damp cushions on the sofa. There was no telling how many crackers and chips had been ground into the den rug. She imagined an opened and forgotten ice cream carton sitting on the counter, a trail of cookies-and-cream dribbled from one end of the house to the other. Drawing a bracing breath as she entered the house, Charlotte then let out a relaxed sigh just as quickly as she had filled her lungs. Gone were the fingerprints, the wrapping paper, and the Pez. Not a towel was in sight, and the dishwasher had been run again and was now full of clean dishes. The house was quiet; Charlotte was the first one home that afternoon. Wanting to relish the quiet time, and relieved of the cleaning tasks she had anticipated, Charlotte reached for the refrigerator to pour herself a glass of wine.

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That was when she saw the note. It was from Roxie: Hi Mom, I love you so much! Thank you for my b-day party! I will remember it forever! You are the best mom ever! Love, Roxie With a tear rolling down her cheek, Charlotte carefully took down the note and read it again before gently folding it and putting it away in a stash of keepsakes deep in her hiding-place drawer. The birthday may have been Roxie’s, but Charlotte was sure she would never forget it either. In her opinion, she had received the best gift.

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I knew my daughter admired me but didn’t know just how much until she came home with a “Mom” tattoo.

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Fraidy Cat Jill is known as “Fraidy Cat” in our home. She is the one who rode the Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica Pier with a white-knuckled grip on the handrail and her eyes closed before the ride even started; her teeth were clenched so tight, I’m still surprised she didn’t break a molar. “It’s not safe!” she shouted while Meagan, Linley, and I laughed during the entire ride, taking turns rocking the gondola to see who could elicit the loudest Mommy scream. She’s afraid of bugs too, especially daddy longleg spiders. Once while attending a family reunion picnic at a state park, Jill needed to use

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the public bathroom. Before she would venture into it, however, I had to inspect it for these spiders. My family howled as our daughters stood guard outside the women’s bathroom and I ventured inside to look in all the nooks and crannies for the offending pests. Finding none, I announced that the facilities were safe. Jill, her anxiety put to rest, rushed inside for a much-needed visit. Approximately eight seconds later, the loudest glass-breaking scream anyone has ever heard penetrated the steel door and concrete walls of the bathroom. The door burst open, and Jill rushed out, her feet not touching the ground, still trying to fasten her pants as she sailed through the air like a gazelle escaping a predator on the wide-open savannah. “There was one on the ceiling,” she managed to say between gulping breaths when we finally caught up with her about two hundred yards later. Linley and I looked at each other, shrugged, and rolled our eyes. “Fraidy cat,” Linley scoffed. So you can imagine my surprise when I asked Linley and Jill to share a story for this book and Jill suggested that they tell me about a mother-and-daughter camping trip they took one weekend before Jill and I met. As far as I knew, Jill thought camping meant sleeping in a stateof-the-art RV parked alongside the pool of a nice hotel with a four-star restaurant and world-class spa inside. Now, Linley is quite the opposite of her mom—she is fearless. Knowing she had a long history of doing daredevil stunts that resulted in broken bones and the need for stitches, I suspected I would need to employ

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my nursing skills occasionally after our family was formed. I had no idea I would be in an emergency room four times before our first wedding anniversary. Linley has attended the same summer camp for years, sometimes staying for weeks at a time, learning archery, riflery, rappelling, canoeing, and how to build a fire without the convenience of matches. She doesn’t mind sleeping under the stars, taking a cold spring water shower, or brushing her teeth with a stick. Jill, on the other hand, wouldn’t touch a stick unless two independent observers testified under oath that there wasn’t and never had been a daddy longlegs on, near, or even thinking about the stick. Nevertheless, daughter and mom arrived at base camp one afternoon and proceeded to settle in. To Jill’s relief, the sleeping accommodations were a rustic cabin with bunk beds, not a tent. The first order of business after Linley searched the cabin for spiders was to sign up for the various activities offered. Linley selected archery and canoeing and, taking pity on her mother, also signed them up for two girlie classes, basket weaving and birdhouse building. On a whim, she completed her choices by signing up for the “Pamper Pole” activity. When Jill inquired about the last item on their list, Linley remarked, “Mom, how bad can it be with the word pamper in the name?” Made sense. The first day of mommy-daughter camping activities passed without a hitch. Jill and Linley enjoyed a morning of archery, Linley hitting the bull’s-eye a few times and Jill finally managing to launch her arrow well

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enough to get it halfway to the target. They finished the day weaving a grass basket and building a brightly painted but somewhat oddly shaped birdhouse. Jill fell asleep that night with a feeling of accomplishment, thinking the most difficult of her camping activities were behind her. For just how challenging could something that involved pampering actually be? The next morning Linley led her mother along a wooded path toward the Pamper Pole. Rounding a bend and approaching a clearing in the trees, Jill looked ahead in horror. Right in front of her was a telephone pole sticking up in the ground. It stood somewhere between thirty and one hundred feet tall (depending on whom you ask) and had tiny handholds nailed onto its sides, a small platform on top, and a rope dangling down. All thoughts of being pampered quickly evaporated from Jill’s mind. Before Jill could scream, “Don’t, it’s not safe!” Linley had strapped on a safety harness and scampered like a squirrel to the top of the pole. Jill’s heart stopped as Linley leapt straight out off the platform, grabbed a trapeze bar, and performed a few circus acrobatics before descending to the ground. Jill, shaking like a leaf and nearly crying with fear, met her daughter as her feet finally touched the ground. “I can’t do it,” she said over and over again. “Yes, you can,” Linley insisted. Somehow she managed to convince her mother to give the pole a try. This is the point in the story at which the mother’s and daughter’s tales diverge. They cannot agree on how long

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it might have taken Jill to climb the pole and steady herself at the top on the little platform. They cannot agree on how far out she leapt or by how much she missed the trapeze bar. They can’t even agree on how loudly she screamed on the way down or for how long she screamed even after she was standing safely on the ground. But what they can agree on is, yes, Jill did it, just as Linley said she could. Just as Linley had known all along. Now when someone calls her mom “Fraidy Cat,” she is quick to say, “Well, there was that one time . . .”

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My mom is that person who has been my personal cheerleader from the day I was born.

I hope you know you can

always turn to me.

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Momma Magic For all time, mothers have been the nurses and doctors of the household, relying on old home remedies, secrets passed down from generations of women before them, knowledge gained from self-study and trial-anderror interventions, and the fabled woman’s instinct itself to practice the healing arts at an ailing child’s bedside. Vickie’s mom was her favorite doctor and nurse. Mom seemed to have the magic touch that could make any pain or discomfort go away in the blink of

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an eye. Whether it was a skinned knee, scraped elbow, or bump on the head, Vickie went directly to her mom when medical attention was necessary. One night while suffering with a particularly painful earache,Vickie lay awake in her bed waiting for her mother to come home from work. She didn’t call out for her dad because even though he was very capable and certainly willing to handle the situation, there was just something more special about having her mom fuss over her. Vickie finally heard the front door squeak open; her mother had come home at last. Hearing her daughter call out to her, Mom swooped in, asked a few questions, felt Vickie’s forehead, and then strode to the kitchen cupboard where all her remedy potions were kept. She returned to the room with warm eardrops and a cup of hot tea with lemon and honey, and in short order Vickie began to feel better. Within the time it took to whisper a few words of comfort and reassurance, momma magic had soothed the pain and Vickie quickly fell fast asleep. Years later, while attending college and living away from home, Vickie came down with the flu. Not wanting to miss any classes, she fought a brave but losing battle against the fever and chills, hacking cough, and runny nose. When she was certain she was on the verge of death, she called her mother to come to her rescue. And of course she did, even though she lived nearly four hours away. Arriving at her daughter’s dorm room, Mom escorted Vickie to the car, which she had prepared with pillows, a blanket, tissues, and a plastic cup of medications.

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The two women held hands for the entire ride home. After a few bowls of warm soup, a good night’s sleep, and an ample dose of Mom’s attention,Vickie returned to school as good as new.

Jada was only thirty years old when her doctor said she had to have a lifealtering surgery. She would be practically immobile for eight weeks and would need the help of an attendant. Hearing the news and announcing adamantly that it was a mother’s role, not a paid attendant’s, to care for a sick child, Nell immediately made plans to move in with Jada. She attended every medical appointment with her daughter from then on. On the day of the surgery, she waited patiently with her daughter’s worried fiancé for the doctor’s report, and she was waiting at the front door when the medical shuttle brought Jada home. During the next two months, the mother and daughter spent nearly every waking moment together, Nell helping Jada to sponge bathe, brush her teeth, and use the toilet. It was the first time in over twenty years that Nell had seen her daughter naked, and it had been even longer since she had touched her body in such a manner, but to Jada her mother’s touch was as comforting and reassuring as ever—save for the embarrassment, which she kept to herself. Her strength eventually returned, and one day Jada was ready to return to living on her own with only the help of her fiancé. As she sat on

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the guest bed and watched her mother pack her suitcase, Jada remembered all those recent times when her mother’s thin and aged but strong hands had held out medicine, caressed her hair, and steadied her as she struggled to her feet. “I can’t imagine how I would have gotten through this without you,” Jada said. Nell pushed her bag aside and sat down next to her daughter. Taking Jada’s hand in hers, she looked into Jada’s eyes and smiled. “It has been my honor to take care of you again. It made me believe there are still times when you will need me. I hope you know you can always turn to me.” Mother and daughter fell into each other’s arms, and at that moment any lingering hint of Jada’s embarrassment vanished. As she held her mother close, she felt secure in the knowledge that momma magic was still hers for the asking, whenever she needed it.

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I don’t know how she knew when I needed her but she always did. She picked me up from the floor more times than I can count.

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A Matching Pair Morgan and Beth couldn’t have looked more different. Morgan was tall, standing a little more than five feet, ten inches, in her bare feet. Her mom was four-eleven only when pushing up on her tiptoes. Morgan’s face was speckled with freckles, and her mom’s complexion was as creamy as freshly churned butter. Morgan’s eyes were green; her mom’s were brown. Morgan’s frame was curvy, and she had full lips over straight teeth. Her mom was lean and had thin lips over imperfect teeth. They hardly looked related.

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Except for their hair, that is. Both women sported a head full of thick, wavy, shoulder-length hair the color of ginger and copper with a hint of burnt orange. “The Redheads” they were referred to collectively within their family. Their hair was their hallmark, and mother and daughter embraced it; it was the only physical trait they had in common. For years they had worn their hair in the same style. When Beth first began showing hints of gray and silver, she turned to a color specialist to make sure she continued to have the same hair color as her daughter. They took every opportunity to have their photograph taken, cheek pressed to cheek, their hair in each other’s faces, laughing and hamming it up. In their opinion, their hair made it obvious to all that they were indeed mother and daughter. Upon learning that she needed treatment for cancer, the prospect of losing her hair, the only characteristic she had in common with her mother, was what Morgan dreaded most. Within ten days after starting chemotherapy, clumps of hair began to come out in her hands. In the beginning of her third week of chemotherapy, she made the decision to shave her head. Being bald had to be better than waking up each morning to even more evidence of what was happening to her. She sat in her kitchen the next morning waiting for her mom to arrive. Beth was going to shave her daughter’s head, Morgan being too afraid to attempt it herself. When the doorbell rang, she set down her coffee mug, pulled on a baseball cap, and headed for the front door. When she opened it, she gasped.

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“What have you done?” she nearly shrieked, looking at her mother’s shiny bald head. “I had to practice on somebody,” Beth said with a mischievous smile. Throughout Morgan’s treatment, mother and daughter shaved each other’s head. Sometimes they wore the same hats when going out; other times they elected to get a little tan on top. Seldom did they wear wigs, but when they did, they wore the funkiest matching wigs they could find. And when Morgan’s hair began to grow back, Beth’s did too.

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Flintstone Feet Putting the final touches on the outfit she was going to wear to work that morning, Kristin selected a pair of shoes and dropped them to the floor to slip her feet inside. Lifting one bare foot from the floor, she paused as she looked down. There they were, those wide, fat feet that ran in her family. “Flintstone feet,” as everyone called them. She looked at her hands too. Short, stubby fingers—another curse of her genes.

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Even as a five-year-old, Kristin had wished her hands would someday grow long, graceful fingers with perfectly shaped nails. Only then would she run her fingers through her hair rather than keep them stuffed in her pockets. But as much as she wanted new fingers, it was her feet that had bothered her most. They were so wide that they fit comfortably only in shoes made for boys—and one size too big at that. When Kristin was a teenager, she had wrapped her feet tightly with strips of cloth in an effort to make them smaller—or at the very least prevent them from getting wider. When her mom first noticed Kristin’s odd wrapping practice, she had asked her about it. While Kristin explained, a frown came across Silvia’s face. “You should be glad you have all your fingers and toes,” Silvia said, and then went about her business. They never spoke about the family trait again. Decades later, Kristin’s mom was hospitalized after the disease she had been fighting took a turn for the worse. One late night, Kristin sat next to her mother’s hospital bed, holding her hand. Silvia’s temperature was high, so she was covered from chin to ankle with only a light blanket. Uncovered for all to see were her wide feet, with her fat toes glowing from a recent pedicure. Kristin surveyed her sleeping mother. She smiled. They had the same chin, nose, hands, and, of course, the very same feet.

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Within days of that moment of tender observation, Kristin’s mother passed away. Standing there in her closet, Kristin beamed with pride at her Flintstone feet, a true and unmistakable gift from her mother. Pushing her foot into the shoe, she chuckled, reminded that a little piece of her mother still lived on.

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When it came time to deliver my child, I wanted nobody but my mom. She was the only one who knew what I was going through. She was the one who held my hand and told me everything would be okay.

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Notes of Love Teresa stood at her kitchen counter with three open lunch boxes before her: a blue one decorated with Hawaiian flowers, a purple one with leopard trim, and a pink Hello Kitty one. In each she had already stored healthy lunches of turkey sandwiches, carrot sticks, sliced apples, and homemade peanut butter cookies. All that remained to do before closing the lids was to place inside a letter to each daughter. Sometimes she placed her letters on her daughters’ pillows, tucked them between the pages of their textbooks, or arranged them under the

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arms of their stuffed animals. Once she even wrote a note on their bathroom mirrors with lipstick. But putting the letters in with their lunches was her favorite method of special delivery. It was the way her mother had done it. When Teresa was a child, she carried a red plastic Snoopy lunch box to school, and her usual lunch consisted of a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, potato chips, homemade chocolate chip cookies, and carrot sticks or an apple. No, Mom didn’t permit Ding Dongs or Twinkies, but she did believe in hiding love notes between the cookies or under the sandwich. Such notes found their way into Teresa’s hands for years, left on her bed or tucked inside the pocket of her jeans. Each brought a smile to her face, made her feel special, and in the end taught her how to be a mom too. Teresa grabbed a pen and pad and wrote, “Good luck on your test!” to Emily, “Your birthday is coming soon!” to McKenzie, and, to Rachael, “Thank you for helping me last night.” Each ended the same way: “I love you so much.” She tucked the letters into their respective lunch boxes and called out for the girls to get in the car. Waiting for her sleepy daughters to make their appearance, Teresa looked down at the notepad once more. In a flash she grabbed the pen and wrote a fourth note, this one to her mom. She wasn’t sure where she would hide it yet, but she couldn’t wait to get to her mother’s house to find a place for it.

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Answered Prayers When she was a little girl, Margaret hated to attend church. Whether it was the scratchy Sunday dresses and too-tight patent leather shoes, the boring big-people sermons or, later, the personal philosophy she developed that she couldn’t believe in anything that couldn’t be empirically proven, Margaret resisted her mother’s attempts to keep her involved in the church. The willful daughter made it clear that when she did attend she was doing so against her will, and that when she began living on her own she planned to never step across a church threshold again.

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Although her mother, Pauline, was disappointed, she did not give up hope. She believed that one day her daughter would make room for God in her heart. Pauline prayed and waited for that day to come. Years passed, and one day Margaret’s lack of faith seemed reinforced as she sat at her mother’s hospital bedside, holding Pauline’s frail hand, taking care not to disturb the tubes and needles that pierced her thin veins. Pauline winced as each painful spasm surged through her weak body. Cancer was running through her veins, her blood work was all wrong—the new medication wasn’t working—and a bone marrow donor hadn’t been found. Where is God now? Margaret wondered. How could he turn his back on a woman who always showed so much faith? Pauline, as if able to read her daughter’s mind in that moment, gripped Margaret’s fingers. “Pray with me,” she whispered. “Why?” Margaret asked. “Because it is what I want you to do with me,” Pauline said. Margaret knew it wasn’t the time to debate with or disappoint her mother, so she bowed her head and listened. As she had anticipated, her mother said a prayer asking God to comfort and guide her doctors and to be with the other patients in the hospital. She asked that in her own life his will would be done. Margaret, thinking the prayer was finished, opened her eyes and sat up, only to hear her mother go on. “And one more thing, God. Please be with Margaret and take care of her when I’m gone.”

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Suddenly tears flooded Margaret’s eyes. She had never confronted the reality that her mother might not survive; she had held out hope that a bone marrow donor might be just around the corner or that the next medication adjustment would do the trick. Before she realized what she was doing, she closed her eyes again and prayed, “Please, God, save my mother.” Over the next few days, Pauline’s cheeks turned pink again. New tests confirmed an unexpected but welcomed improvement in her health. Sooner than anyone had hoped, she was released from the hospital to return home, and there she continued on her way toward full remission. And every night since that evening alongside her mother’s hospital bed, Margaret has said a prayer.

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3

A Legacy of Letters Faith’s parents divorced when she was eight years old, and in time her mother, Olivia, remarried. Olivia’s new husband was soon unexpectedly relocated to the East Coast, and Faith, with all her friends and animals in New Mexico, chose to remain in her hometown living with her dad. The mother and daughter had enjoyed a close relationship, and neither of them wanted to see their bond diminished by the new distance between them. Olivia promised her daughter that she would call several times a week and write as often as she could.

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Olivia managed to call Faith three times a week for ten years, sometimes more often when exciting events were taking place in her maturing adolescent’s life or when Faith really needed a mother’s shoulder to lean on. Wanting to make sure time didn’t erase any of the love and advice she showered on her daughter over a telephone line, Olivia also wrote letters to Faith. Faith received a letter from her mom twice a week during those same ten years. She keeps them in a box, and even now, at twenty-four years old, she refers to those letters whenever she needs a pick-me-up or a quick word of advice. She has read them so often that she knows which one to reach for when a particular dilemma requires her mother’s advice. But of all the letters Olivia wrote, Faith’s favorites are the ones that came when she needed her mother the most—when she was a pregnant teen. Fearing her mother’s reaction when the time came to tell her the news in a phone call, Faith braced for her mother’s disappointment and scolding. Instead, she heard her mother’s calm acceptance and soothing concern. Olivia reassured Faith that even from afar she would be there to help her every step along the way. As the date of the baby’s arrival neared, Faith began to receive a letter nearly every day. Some explained what delivery would be like; others suggested names, as well as remedies for baby illnesses and comments about temperaments. Now and then coupons for diapers, formula, and other infant necessities fell from the eagerly opened envelopes. In letters Faith learned about nursing, skin care, and telltale

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signs of maladies to watch for—all the knowledge her mom had accumulated after raising her own three children. More specifically, Faith learned how much her mother loved her and wanted to be there for her. Faith’s dad tried hard to lend a hand, but he worked long hours and wasn’t as knowledgeable about child care as Olivia was. When Faith found herself overwhelmed soon after her baby’s arrival, he simply didn’t know much about how to help his daughter. Learning of her daughter’s struggles, Olivia boarded a plane and flew to her side, not only to meet her granddaughter for the first time but to ask Faith to come home with her. Faith looked up at her mom and realized that even though she had gotten along fine without her for ten years, she needed her mother now more than ever. The old roots that had once kept Faith in New Mexico had been replaced with new ones, those that connected her heart to the tiny baby she held in her arms—not to mention the deeper connection that had grown between her and her mother in the months before she gave birth. Within a week Faith moved east. She remained in her mother’s nest for nearly two years, until the day she married the man of her dreams, whom she met in her new hometown. Four years have passed since Faith married and started her own home with her husband. He too was relocated by his employer, and now Faith once again lives several states away from her mother. Just as the distance made no difference before, Olivia still writes, continuing to give

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her daughter welcome advice about parenting, helping her to anticipate and understand coming changes in her children, and sharing in written words her love for her adult child and two grandchildren. Although today they correspond mostly by e-mail, Faith still finds the occasional handwritten note from her mom in the mailbox. As always, each is signed, “Love, Mom.”

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Too many times I’ve saved the good stuff for tomorrow, only to find out it was yesterday.

But now I enjoy life and live for today; my daughters taught me that.

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Reunion It had been a long hard eight years for Nora. The pain of her divorce, the humiliation of her arrest after a string of bad decisions, and the relentless daily regimen of the women’s prison paled in comparison to the heartbreaking separation from her only child, her beloved daughter. Crystal was only five years old when her mom was incarcerated and her single dad became her sole guardian. Hurt and angry himself, he did everything he could to erase his ex-wife from their home, in the belief that he was saving his daughter from the same bad choices her mother had

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made. Despite his efforts, Crystal clung to memories of her mom—the two of them fishing with cane poles at the pond, playing in a mound of warm laundry just out of the dryer, and putting butterfly-shaped hair clips in each other’s bangs. Nora did her best to stay out of trouble while in prison. She got clean and sober and began attending chapel, where the chaplain encouraged her to never give up hope and to pray and ask for forgiveness and guidance. Soon she began to pray each night before she climbed into her bunk, always holding the one possession she cherished most, a photograph of herself and her daughter, both with butterflies in their hair. “Good night, Flutterby,” she always whispered before kissing the photo. Now a teenager, Crystal set up a profile on an Internet social networking site and began keeping a diary of her thoughts and memories about her mother, lest she forget them. She also posted a few photographs of herself and the only one she had taken with her mom, one her dad had somehow overlooked. They wore butterflies in their hair. Finally out of prison, employed, and still hopeful, Nora sat down to a computer one evening. She had no idea where her ex-husband and child were. She began searching the Internet for Crystal’s name, her date of birth, anything she could think of that might lead her to her child. Nora also created profiles for herself on a number of social networking sites— using the screen name “Birdie,” a nickname Crystal had given her many years before—and told the world about her search. One afternoon when Crystal sat down to add to her online diary, she decided to peruse the new screen names of recently created profiles,

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hoping to make a new friend. Scanning down the list of names, her heart jumped as her eyes came to rest on one in particular. Later that same day Nora sat down at her desk to continue her search for Crystal. When she logged into her e-mail account, she saw that a message awaited her. When she opened it, tears flooded her eyes. There was the photograph she knew so well, and then the message she thought she might never receive. “Hi, Mom, it’s me, Flutterby,” it began.

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We had our troubles, but I loved my mom more than anything. There was that special bond I couldn’t explain, and I couldn’t deny it, either.

We’ve gone through some dark places, but the fact that we came out the other side together has made our

relationship stronger.

-

3

Special Breakfast The queen of make-believe, Helen encouraged her children to be creative and use their imaginations. The ordinary things became extraordinary when they were enjoyed with Mom. She consistently managed to bring a little flair to each day no matter how busy she was around the house or at her job. Jenny was particularly fond of the way her mother served breakfast in their cozy kitchen before taking her and her siblings to school. Helen always offered heart-shaped waffles or pancakes cooked

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with a little whimsy—chocolate chips, banana pieces, or sprinkles of cinnamon, maybe even an artful pouring of syrup. Every plate arrived at the table looking like a work of art. When Jenny entered the third grade, her mom began working at a new job, one she had really wanted even though it was farther away from home and more demanding than her last job. Helen quickly realized that she had to stop serving breakfast at home; there simply wasn’t enough time given the greater distance of her new commute. She informed her children that they would begin having breakfast at school. It didn’t take Jenny long to discover that she hated eating in the cafeteria; everything was bland, uninspired, and just plopped down on a plastic plate. Missing her mother’s cheerful way of gathering her children around the table and making every breakfast special, Jenny began to arrive at school with disappointment churning her stomach. One particularly bad morning she sat in the backseat of the car and cried on the way to school. “I’m going to throw up if I eat cereal in that cafeteria one more time!” Helen, who missed the old morning routine too, took a sudden turn and drove away from the school. “We’re taking a little detour today,” she announced with a grin. Jenny sat up in rapt attention when her mom pulled up to a doughnut shop. She was mesmerized when Helen ran inside. When Helen returned to the car with a bag stuffed with a dozen different donuts, Jenny and her siblings cheered at the top of their lungs.

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As her children munched joyfully on chocolate, cinnamon, and glazed doughnuts, Helen headed for a nearby city park. Soon all were sitting in the crisp morning air at a picnic table dunking doughnuts in milk. When the meal was finished, Helen looked at her watch, calculated a moment, and then stood up and shouted, “Catch me if you can!” Everyone chased each other around in the dew-covered grass until the last possible moment before they had to jump in the car and head for school and Helen’s important job. Jenny walked into class that day with a smile on her face for the first time in weeks. And while Helen was late for work, the memory of the special time spent with her children carried her through the day.

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It didn’t matter what time she went to bed, it seemed Mom was always first up and making breakfast before we even knew it was morning.

Upon hearing the doctor say, “It’s a girl,”

I became ecstatic! I couldn’t wait . . .

to do all the things for my daughter that

my mom had done with me.

It is difficult watching my mom age.

Now I hug her every time I see her, and regret every time I didn’t.

My daughter often says of my mother, “She knows everything about everything.”

Indeed, she does.

3

Forget-Me-Nots In the quiet of her home after her children have gone to bed, Wynne spends a few minutes reading before calling it a day. She nearly always selects a well-worn book from the stack she keeps on her nightstand, a selection of books her mother gave her. Years earlier while living at home, Wynne and her mother used to exchange books they’d read. Wynne’s books were most often popular novels of the day, while Betsy preferred serious nonfiction and light inspirational titles.

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Wynne usually handed books over to her mother only with her enthusiastic recommendation that they be read at the beach or during a rainy weekend. The books Betsy gave her daughter, however, always came with special notes written in the margin. Some of these notes were simple reminders to look up a word in the dictionary; others were remarks of agreement or disagreement with the author’s point of view (the passages she agreed with being commonly underlined and accompanied by the word “YES!” written in big letters). Now and then Betsy’s notes were just thoughts on paper meant only for Wynne, as in, “This reminds me of you when you were a little girl,” “You should consider doing this,” and, “This is the kind of life I want for you.” At particularly poignant passages in inspirational books, Betsy often wrote of her love for her family, her joys in being a mother, and her hopes for her children’s future. When asked why she wrote so much in her books, sometimes leaving her neat penmanship on nearly every page, Betsy explained, “I don’t want to forget any of the thoughts that come to me while I’m reading.” Thereafter the notes were known as “Betsy’s Forget-Me-Nots.” The truth, however, is that Betsy knew some of her thoughts were better left unsaid out loud to certain ears. Words on paper are permanent and can be read and reread when the mind is more receptive to the intended message—especially the occasionally stubborn mind of a particular daughter. Sometimes years had passed since Betsy first wrote the words that finally clicked in Wynne’s mind. Other times Wynne read what her mother

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had written in the last years of her life, when Betsy was taking stock of her long life. Always, Betsy’s Forget-Me-Nots made Wynne feel as though her mother were still with her. Now and then Wynne falls asleep while reading; other times she stays awake well into the night, absorbing not the text of the book but rather her mother’s prose in its margins. Tears come to her eyes when she finds “I love you so much.” And when her eyes finally do close, Wynne falls asleep with sweet memories of her mother and comforting words that will never be forgotten.

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3

Like Mother, Like Daughter A few years ago, my wife, Jill, decided to go back to school in pursuit of a new career. Wanting to become a middle school teacher, she immersed herself in her studies, leaving me to cook, much to the relief of all who sit around our dining table. Today her culinary skills have been far surpassed by her teaching skills, most notably in how thoroughly she gives me my daily assignments. Before leaving for work recently, she gave me a list of office supplies she wanted. She reviewed the list with me, pointing to each item to make

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sure I knew which one she was talking about. She held up her fingers to indicate how many of each item she wanted, she described its shape and color, and she gave me permission to call if I had any questions. I think she’d forgotten I have a doctoral degree. Although I thought I adequately suppressed my smirk, I suppose I didn’t because she told me if I didn’t wipe it off my face I’d face unspeakable punishment. “Yes, ma’am,” I respectfully replied and then hurried her to her car before she could threaten me further. I stretch the truth a little, but my wife does enjoy telling me what to do, or how to do it better. Sometimes she even challenges the direction I turn when driving away from our neighborhood, independent of the point of our final destination. Nevertheless, I have grown accustomed to this habit of my wife’s; after all, it must be quite difficult for her to manage rambunctious teenagers all day long and then turn off the take-charge switch when she arrives home. What degree of acclimation I have achieved, though, was threatened one afternoon while my family was visiting with my in-laws. You see, Jill’s mom, Joann, has a certain way with words—a way that lets you know in no uncertain terms what is on her mind, a way that leaves no room for misunderstanding. In fact, she has no compunction about looking you straight in the eye and saying, “You’re just crazy.” During our lunch conversation, Jill began to share our plans for the summer—where we were going on vacation, how we were going to get there, and what was to be done with our dog, mail, and lawn while we were away.

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Joann listened without offering an approving nod, and when Jill had finished detailing our plans, she tossed her hands dismissively in the air and said, “That’s all wrong.” Then she outlined exactly what she thought we should do, believing of course that we were compelled to follow every word of advice she offered. Jill listened obediently. Linley, Meagan, and I kept our heads down low and cleaned our plates. During the drive home, Jill was beside herself, repeating over and over again, “She’s becoming just like her mother!” Joann’s mother had been a commanding matriarch who was quick to tell anyone that they were wearing the wrong color for their skin tone or the season, that they should never wear pleats, what they should order in a restaurant (including restaurants she had never been to), how they should wear their hair, and which grandchildren shouldn’t be permitted out of the house until they had learned how to behave in public. Joann had been known to reassure her family, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to turn out like that.” “And here she is,” Jill exclaimed, “becoming just like my grandmother!” As she said it, she flipped her hands in the air, incredulous at the thought. About that time I decided to take a detour from our normal route home, wanting a change of scenery even if it meant driving a few extra miles. I turned on my blinker. “You’re crazy to go that way this time of the day,” Jill said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

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Just then Linley groaned loudly from the backseat. I looked into the rearview mirror in time to see her pulling her shirt collar up high over her head. “Oh my God, it’s hereditary!” she shrieked. I erased my grin quickly enough to avoid detention as Jill turned in her seat to wag an outstretched finger at the girls, who were doubled over in laughter behind us. Like mother, like daughter, I guess.

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I am twenty-one years old, finishing college,

and yet my mom is still my best friend.

When I tuck my sweet girls into bed each night, I remember how very blessed I am.

I always saw my mother kneeling by her bed at night saying her prayers and knew that she was praying for me, just like I now pray for my children.

3

Praying for Mazol Throughout her days of living as a single woman, Eden’s mother often told her daughter she was praying that she’d have mazol. In other words, Pelia hoped and prayed her daughter would be fortunate enough to meet a good man who would become her lifelong companion. Back then this conversation always infuriated Eden, insulting her modern feminist ideals and reinforcing her independent spirit. “We are meant for companionship,” or, “A life without love is not a full life,” Pelia would say again and again in spite of her daughter’s not so thinly veiled dismissive scoffs.

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Today, a good twenty-five years later and happily married, living a life enriched by loving companionship, it is Eden who finds herself praying for her eighty-three-year-old mother. Many a night Eden lies awake worrying about her mother’s social world, which gets smaller by the month as her old friends become sick or pass away. Pelia grew up in a crowd of siblings, cousins, and guests, in a house where it was impossible to ever be alone in a room. Then she married and raised three children, each with Little League games, playdates, and birthday parties to manage. In what seemed like a heartbeat, she went from being a wife, mother, and daughter-in-law to a lonely widow with too much time and not enough people within reach. Now there is no one to bake bread and cookies for, and the children and grandchildren don’t always make it home for Thanksgiving. She is not accustomed to being alone. And yet, remembering her own words from years ago, Pelia does not give up hope. She gathers enough strength to attend art classes at the community center, go to the temple, join a bridge group, and, yes, stroll the mall, all in an effort to meet someone, perhaps a like-minded soul who could become special in her life one day. Watching her mother get ready to start her day, Eden crosses her fingers and hopes that today is the day a single elderly gentleman will sit next to her mother and strike up a conversation. She daydreams that Pelia will smile as she accepts her first lunch invitation from a suitor in years.

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This gentleman will become the special friend who would visit every day to talk, walk in the park, or hold Pelia’s hand as they sit in the rocking chairs in the shade of the front porch. Eden’s dearest wish is for her mother to have a companion again. Today it is Eden who prays for mazol, for her mother.

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3

Just One Hour “Please let me live long enough to know my grandchildren,” Elaine prayed one night soon after her mother passed away. The loss of her mother was difficult enough to bear, but not having her near to help with child care or give much-needed parenting advice weighed even more heavily on Elaine’s heart. As she prayed for a long life, she promised to do whatever was needed when her two young children became adults and had children of their own one day. Twenty-seven years later, Rosemary, Elaine’s daughter, was working full-time and still two semesters away from completing graduate school

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when Hunter, her son, was born. With a husband whose work schedule changed regularly, making him unavailable to care for their child on the nights when she had a four-hour-long class, Rosemary faced an unfortunate decision. “I’m going to postpone finishing my degree,” she told her mother one evening in a phone call. “No, you’re not,” Elaine responded. “I am going to help you, and you are going to finish school.” “But, Mom, you live too far away.” “Rosemary, it’s just one hour.” Beginning the next week, Elaine left home every Thursday afternoon, drove one hour to pick up Hunter at day care, and then took him home with her, where she tended to his needs. The next morning she would drive the route again, leaving Hunter at day care, where Rosemary would pick him up in the afternoon. Whenever Rosemary expressed worry that she was asking too much of her mother, Elaine reminded her, “It’s just one hour.” One year later, Rosemary finished her master’s degree. Six more years passed, and Rosemary became pregnant again; this time she would need Elaine’s help more than ever. After she learned her unborn child had Down syndrome, she called her mother in tears. “We can handle this,” Elaine said. From that moment on, she was Rosemary’s source of strength, bringing cheer and optimism to every heavy moment, refusing to let her daughter slide into despair. Faithful to the promise she had made so many years before, Elaine readily embraced the need to help care for her second grandchild.

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She was with Rosemary during Noah’s delivery, and she attended every one of his medical appointments after he was born. In spite of the pain of an old back injury, she slept three weeks in a hospital recliner alongside Rosemary while Noah recuperated from open heart surgery. Today Noah is four years old, and Elaine still takes him to his appointments whenever Rosemary is unable to. She also keeps her youngest grandson for a weekend now and then, to make sure Hunter gets to spend quality alone time with his mom. And as has been the case now for eleven years, when Rosemary calls with an unexpected request for help, Elaine’s answer is always the same: “I will be there in just one hour.” But it is much more than simply one hour—it is a prayer answered, and a promise kept.

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The only comfort I found in returning to work was knowing my mother was taking care of my daughter. That and the daily photograph of the two of them she e-mailed to me at my desk.

Whenever we had to run through the rain,

it was Mom who jumped in the puddles.

Now married and on my own, I have learned to appreciate every push, hug, kind word, and hard lesson my mom gave to me.

3

Chocolate Promise Zoe, barely five years old, was on a grocery shopping trip with her mother and sisters. Standing in the checkout line, her mouth watered over the assorted candies strategically placed near the cashier. Spying a favorite chocolate bar within arm’s reach and believing in that moment that she had to eat it or die of malnourishment, Zoe begged her mother to let her have the candy. With four children in tow, and knowing if she said yes to one chocolate bar she would have to agree to four, Mom firmly and without hesitation answered, “No.”

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Not to be denied, while Mom was placing the groceries onto the conveyor belt, Zoe seized what seemed at the time a golden, er, chocolate opportunity. Hoping to satisfy her craving and at the same time not altogether disobey her mother’s orders, she quickly tore open the wrapper, took an ample bite, and returned the partially consumed candy to its place on the shelf. It was a moment of delirious joy—a taste of milk chocolate, peanuts, and caramel mixed with the success of evading detection. “Are you going to pay for that, ma’am?” the cashier asked without missing a beat. Her disappointed mother looked down with a stare that Zoe understood meant Just wait until I get you in the car! Moments later, Zoe trudged across the parking lot with her family, certain she was about to be scolded good. Taking her place in the backseat behind the front passenger seat, Zoe sat in the perfect location for Mom to look over her shoulder and make eye contact while yelling and driving home at the same time. She braced herself for the barrage she was certain was about to come. To her surprise, not a word of the incident was mentioned. Arriving home, Zoe was sent to her room, where she waited and tried to numb herself for the spanking she was even more certain would soon take place. After what seemed like hours, her bedroom door finally opened, and in walked her mother, the partially eaten candy bar in hand. And then a second surprise occurred. Mom sat on the bed beside Zoe and softly but seriously began to speak of the importance of honesty,

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integrity, honoring your parents’ wishes, and respecting other people’s property. Not once was there a harsh word, a threat of punishment, or a hint of disappointment in her mother’s voice. With her lesson taught, Mom told Zoe to take a nap and then left the room, taking the candy bar with her. Sometime later Zoe stirred from her nap, shuffled into the kitchen, and found her dad at the table with her three sisters. All eyes were on Zoe. Maybe Dad is going to hand out the punishment, Zoe thought. “Come with me, Zoe,” Mom said, and back to the grocery store they went. There Zoe was introduced to the store owner and instructed to confess to her misbehavior. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she made a full confession and then gave him a heartfelt apology with a promise to never steal again. The man knelt down to eye level with Zoe and said, “More importantly, you should promise to never disappoint your mother again.” Zoe turned to face her mom, the adult who could have spanked her but didn’t, the woman who for years to come would be Zoe’s moral compass and guiding light, and with a sorrowful heart made that simple but weighty promise. And now, thirty-five years later, Zoe has remained faithful to her word.

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My mom’s unwavering love made our home a shelter from all of life’s storms.

I am so grateful to my mother for giving me the roots and wings to be the type of mother who can handle this person who is my daughter.

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A True Gift Although Penny obediently endured what she believed were the most boring Sunday school lessons ever, she often tuned out the finer details of the lessons and thought instead of the coming summer and the goings-on among her eighth-grade classmates. Penny would put on her best poker face, but the Sunday school teacher always saw through her feigned interest. Anita, the teacher, knew her daughter well, and little escaped her observation. That was why she never missed a chance to bring the most recent Bible lesson into the real

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life of her family, demonstrating through her actions what she believed Jesus would do in a similar situation. Yet, in spite of her mother’s uncanny ability to find a perfect opportunity to practice what had been preached, Penny was never as moved by her example as Anita had hoped. More than once, for instance, Anita was disappointed by her daughter’s failure to remember to give a portion of her monthly allowance when the offering basket was passed among the pews. It was springtime, and Penny had been saving most of her allowance to purchase something special for her mother on Mother’s Day. Although she knew her mom was disappointed that she gave so little of her allowance to the church, she was certain that would be forgotten when the gift she planned to purchase with her savings was presented. Anticipating her mother’s delight at the gift, Penny grew more and more excited as the special day neared. The day of the shopping trip came, and they took the train into the city. Anita loved to take the train. To her it was another chance to meet interesting people, maybe even make a new friend. More often than not when the train arrived at their planned stop, Anita and some person who minutes before had been a total stranger would be laughing and talking as if they had known each other all of their lives. On this day, Anita and Penny sat directly across from two women, a middle-aged daughter and her elderly mother. It didn’t take Anita long to learn that the mother was suffering from dementia and that Glenda, the daughter, had recently left her job to care for her mother. They were

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headed to a clinic where they could buy medications at a discount. Even then, Glenda confided, the cost would still present a real hardship. As the train approached the station nearest the clinic, Glenda and her mother prepared to depart. Anita turned to Penny and whispered, “I know what I want for Mother’s Day.” “I’ve already picked something out,” Penny said, excited that her plan was nearing the moment when it would come to light. “Penny, it is better to give than to receive. If you would let me give the money you’ve saved for my present to these people, it would be better than anything you could buy for me.” “But, Mom . . .” “It will mean so much to me, Penny, and even more to them.” Reluctantly Penny reached into her jeans pocket, pulled out a few folded bills, and handed them to her mother. When the train stopped, Anita stood and reached for her new friend’s hand. “My daughter and I want to give this to you,” she said. Glenda burst into tears when she looked into her palm. “I can’t take this,” she said. Penny looked up at her mom; she was crying too. Something about the expression in her mother’s eyes and the smile on her face suddenly spoke to the adolescent. She finally understood what her mother had been trying to teach her. “Yes, you can,” she said, turning to Glenda. “It is our gift to you.”

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I’m beautiful, right, Mommy?

3

Pretty Dresses It began like so many other Monday mornings. Rushing Daddy off to work with a cup of coffee in hand, restoring order in the home after the hectic weekend activities, sorting and washing loads of laundry, and so much more. There were no plans for going out and about in public, so Hannah felt appropriately dressed, quite comfortable in fact, in her dingy Crocs, crumpled sleep shirt, and beloved but terribly tattered old sweatpants. Until her little four-year-old daughter, Celeste, came into the room, that is.

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“I want to wear a pretty dress today,” she announced. “But we aren’t going out today.You can just wear your pajamas if you want,” Hannah answered. “I want to wear a pretty dress!” Celeste repeated over and over again, stomping her foot for emphasis. With better things to do than debate with a determined preschooler, Hannah took Celeste’s hand and headed to the children’s closet with twoyear-old Lori bouncing along behind. She too had joined in her sister’s mission. “Pretty dress! Pretty dress! Pretty dress!” she cheered. Hannah opened the closet door and followed Celeste’s outstretched finger to find the dress in question, a beautiful tea party dress hanging nearly hidden deep in the back. She remembered buying it; she had spent way too much money but somehow rationalized purchasing it anyway, thinking of saving it for a special occasion. Once home with it, however, she had put the dress in the closet and then promptly forgot about it. While her little girls squealed, Hannah pulled out the dress (tags still attached) and helped Celeste try it on, only to find that the sleeves were now two inches too short and the lacy bloomers threatened to cut off the circulation in the girl’s legs. She looked at her daughter to tell her the dress was too small, but before she could speak, Celeste did. “I’m beautiful, right, Mommy?” “Yes, you are,” Hannah said, her heart melting. She turned back to the closet and selected a second dress, this time one for little Lori. A few moments and two pairs of ruffled socks and patent leather

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shoes later, the girls were dressed for a special occasion and couldn’t have been happier. “Now you, Mommy,” Celeste pleaded. “Not me, I have laundry to do.” “But why?” Squatting down and looking into her daughters’ eyes, Hannah asked herself, Indeed, why not? Why can’t I get dressed up? How many times since having children had she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror and after a double take asked herself, Who is that poor woman looking back at me? Hannah saw that her daughters were still waiting for her answer. Staying at home didn’t call for looking her best. But did it necessarily prevent it? Besides, playing dress-up for a day will make them happy, she reasoned. She stood and reached for their hands. “Let’s go and look in my closet,” she said, leading the little girls into her bedroom. Those beautiful little dresses in the back of the closet? They’ve been worn, enjoyed, rolled in the leaves, smeared with spaghetti, and washed and made ready to be worn again. Now and then Hannah can be seen wearing red high heels to the grocery store or putting on makeup before doing the laundry. And whenever her daughters host an afternoon tea party, Hannah is sure to wear pearls.

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She wanted all her children to know how much she enjoyed being our mother, but we knew it without her having to tell us. How could we not, with all the bike rides by the river, picnics with homemade brownies, and tree climbing she did with us?

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The Sweetest Reunion One afternoon while talking with her daughter, Mary mentioned that her arm had been hurting lately. Mother and daughter laughed and concluded the pain was probably from holding her arm bent at the elbow with her hand pressing a receiver to her ear all day.Yet as days went by, the pain only increased, and soon the arm began to swell. Concerned, Joann convinced her mother to see a doctor. Joann sat with Mary during the visit and examination and was with her when the doctor called after the lab results came in. The news was terrible. Mary

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had lung cancer. It had progressed to such an advanced stage that there was little hope that treatment would offer any benefit. “I’m afraid you may have only a few months to live,” Mary heard her doctor say. At the age of seventy-three, the mother of seven prepared to face her death. And as the doctor had predicted, chemotherapy and radiation did little to curb the spread of her cancer; her condition worsened significantly. Not wanting to needlessly endure the side effects of treatment, Mary elected to discontinue everything but pain medication. Joann, knowing her mother was no longer able to care for herself, promptly insisted that Mary move into the spare bedroom of her home. Furniture was moved aside and replaced with a hospital bed. Joann took an extended leave of absence from work and planned to spend every remaining day with her mother. Becoming a full-time caregiver overnight was not a burden in the least to Joann. She had witnessed her grandmother provide endless hours of help to her widowed daughter over the years, and when her grandmother was old and fragile, she had watched Mary in her own turn care for her mother. In Joann’s life, caring for one another was simply something family members willingly did for one another. During the next several weeks, Joann did what she could to provide her mother with some level of comfort, preparing the foods she wanted to eat, giving her bed baths, brushing her hair, rubbing lotion on her skin, and, eventually, changing her diapers. All this she did without complaint, honored to have the chance to care in such a way for someone she loved so much.

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When it became clear the final days were approaching, Joann held her mother’s hands when in between her naps they talked in soft whispers about days gone by. They began to plan the funeral and finally chose the last dress Mary would wear. Mary, even through the fog of her medication, saw the pain and fear of loss in her daughter’s eyes and did her best to reassure Joann that everything was going to be all right. Joann struggled to believe this, wondering how her mother could be so calm and relaxed while living what might be her final moments. “I’m going to a better place,” her mother reassured her again and again, and somehow Joann found comfort in the thought that her mother would indeed be in a better place soon. One afternoon while sitting with her ailing mother, Joann heard what would be Mary’s final words. Mary looked up at her daughter and with a weak smile said, “It’s going to be okay, Joann. My mother is here for me now.” Mary shut her eyes, and within the day she was gone. Joann grieved the loss of her mother, but it was not difficult to accept. How could it be, knowing that after years of separation her mother and grandmother were together again? Today Joann looks forward to the day when she too will be welcomed again into her mother’s arms.

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Mom never complained even though she was tired and worn ragged raising two children, keeping up the house, being a wife, and working two jobs. I guess she had six jobs, really.

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3

Angels Whisper Vivianne and her husband had been trying to bring a child into their family for several years. Wanting to experience the joys of parenting and weary of waiting for a conception to occur, they decided to pursue adoption. As they entered the adoption agency, they believed that they were prepared for all the hurdles they would have to jump to become adoptive parents. Little did they know that being an interracial couple in the late 1970s would further delay being matched with an available baby. Two years after their first visit to the agency, and once again growing weary of the waiting, the couple went to bed one night with sad

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and heavy hearts. It seemed their wish of becoming parents was not going to come true. Sometime during the night Vivianne awoke to the sound of a baby’s cry. She sat upright in the bed and roused her husband, alerting him that a baby was in the house. Groggy, he said she was just dreaming and promptly fell back asleep.Vivianne would hear nothing else that night, but at that moment she was convinced that she hadn’t dreamed the cries. She grabbed a slip of paper from her nightstand, peered at the alarm clock, wrote down the time and date, and then tucked the note in a drawer. The next morning, still convinced of what she had heard and believing it had to have been a sign, she telephoned the adoption agency. “I know you must have a child for me by now,” she asserted. “As a matter of fact, we do,” the counselor responded. At that time in the state where Vivianne and her husband lived, babies were not permitted to be adopted until they were at least six months old, so as to give the birth mother plenty of time to consider her decision thoroughly. During that six months,Vivianne and her husband would receive sporadic news of the baby but would neither learn its name and sex nor be given a photograph. They endured numerous home visits, interviews, and other scrutiny while they waited for the day when they would adopt their child.Vivianne, caught between wanting to ready her home for the arrival of an infant and her fear that the birth mother might change her mind, decided to wait for certainty before setting up the baby’s room.

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Finally the phone call they had waited for came, and the couple was told to arrive at the agency to receive their new child. Her heart pounding as she stepped out of the car onto the curb in front of the agency,Vivianne saw a young woman carrying a beautiful child into the building. It was a little girl. She dared not hope that she had just caught a glimpse of her future daughter. Upon being seated in the agency office, the counselor said to Vivianne, “We have a baby ready for you if you’d like to have her.” That was when Vivianne knew the little girl she had seen outside on the sidewalk was indeed going to be her daughter. At the moment the child was placed in her arms,Vivianne’s eyes flooded with tears of joy and her heart was given away to the little girl. Before leaving the agency with her new child,Vivianne had to know something. “What day was she born?” she asked. When her question was answered,Vivianne knew the child in her arms was meant to be hers. Her daughter had been born on the very night Vivianne had written down the time and date on that slip of paper still tucked away in a drawer at home. It was on that night, she believes, that an angel whispered in her ear to tell her that her child had been born.

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The truth is, no matter how old you are or what you’ve accomplished . . .

in your life,

you never stop wanting your mom.

Now with children of my own, I realize I should show my mother more appreciation and respect for all the wonderful things she does for me.

3

A Girl Scout Sacrifice Allison came running home from school with exciting news for her mom. Someone from the Girl Scouts had stopped by her second-grade class that day to announce that an effort was under way to form a Brownie troop in the area. All that was needed was for the moms of interested daughters to attend an orientation meeting where all the details of scouting activities would be spelled out. Allison was, of course, very interested and begged her mother, Alicia, to attend the meeting. Now, Allison was rather athletic and a bit of a tomboy. She entertained herself riding her bicycle fast or running around the sidewalks in the

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suburb of St. Louis where they lived, climbing trees and playing sports. Alicia, on the other hand, preferred the indoors, where she could read, listen to music, or watch a documentary on television. Being outside was simply not her cup of tea. She just couldn’t understand why her daughter would not entertain herself sitting quietly in a library with a nice book. But wanting to know what having a Brownie in the house might entail, she agreed to attend the meeting. To her surprise, Alicia discovered that the real purpose of the meeting was to recruit a volunteer mom to become the Brownie troop leader. Without such a volunteer, the troop would not be formed. When she returned home that night after the meeting, Alicia informed her daughter that no one had volunteered. She watched with heartache as Allison turned away and, head down, slunk into her room to call her friends and share the bad news. The next morning, after watching Allison and her classmates mope around in the backyard mourning the lost opportunity to become Brownies, Alicia reached for the telephone. Moments later, even though she knew nothing about Girl Scout activities, Alicia became the troop leader of Brownie Troop 1414. During the following weeks, to her pleasant surprise, Alicia actually enjoyed helping her troop with baking, crafts, bird-watching, and memorization of the Girl Scout Promise and Law. What caused her to question her decision to lead the troop, however, was the unexpected news that a field day was being organized. Troop 1414 was asked to participate and compete against other Brownie troops!

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Allison, of course, was ecstatic. A competitor at heart, she suddenly saw herself on a podium receiving medals, ribbons, and applause for her skills in climbing trees, jumping over rocks, fording streams, and slogging through mud. The day of the event arrived, and the first activity Troop 1414 competed in was a cross-country trail race. Everyone was to race, even Alicia (she groaned at the news). When the cap pistol fired, Allison was off, racing like an agile young doe along the path in the woods, leaping over logs, dodging rocks, and ducking under or pushing branches out of her way.Very quickly, she was ahead of the pack, and soon she saw a clearing just ahead and then the finish line. Her heart quickened as she neared the end of the race, certain that victory was within her grasp. Suddenly she heard a commotion rise up from behind. “Allison, your mom fell down!” one of the Brownies shouted. Trying to cross a creek by running across a log bridge, Alicia had lost her footing. Allison slowed her gallop and processed what she had heard—her mom, a woman who until this day had probably never run along a path through the woods, was down. For a long, agonizing, tantalizing moment, Allison looked at the finish line, thinking she could cross it first and then turn around and run to her mother’s side. But no, she stopped, turned around, and ran even faster back to the place where Alicia had fallen. Troop 1414 won a number of awards that day, but not the crosscountry trail race. It didn’t matter, though, because on that day Allison and Alicia won each other’s admiration. The daughter realized how far her mother would step outside of her comfort zone to make her child happy,

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and the mother saw firsthand that her daughter’s desire to win was not so great that it would get in the way of love. Even though Alicia had to hop out of the woods on a sprained ankle with the help of a few of her Brownies, she did not resign her role as troop leader. In fact, she remained active in the Brownies for years, even long after Allison had lost interest. Alicia did, however, switch to a new role that she thought was far more suitable for her—managing the cookie sale.

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Any woman who survives raising a daughter like me deserves an award!

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3

A Dream Come True One morning Felicia and her husband sat at the breakfast table, out of ideas and money and physically and emotionally exhausted. Seven years of trying to conceive a child had passed, and they could no longer keep holding on to their dream. Parenthood was beyond their reach, they reluctantly admitted to one another. Felicia cried, realizing that she would never walk her own child to school. Felicia became inconsolable, alternating between sadness and anger as she wondered why her prayers had not been answered. She eventually

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went back to college to finish the degree that had been put on hold while they saved their money to try to have a baby. She needed something to distract her mind from her disappointment. Six months later, Felicia woke up not feeling very well. Hoping it was just a short-lived bug, she went about her morning as usual and then reported to work. As the day wore on, however, she began to feel worse and worse. Growing concerned, and not wanting to make her husband sick too, she called the doctor and scheduled an appointment for later in the afternoon. The doctor checked her over and found nothing, but drew some blood just to be on the safe side. Felicia went home feeling no better and settled onto the couch for some rest. Sometime later, the phone rang and stirred her from her nap. “Hello,” she answered. It was her doctor. “You, my dear, are pregnant!” In January of the following year, a blue-eyed child with ten fingers and ten toes was delivered to the loving, and almost still disbelieving, mom and dad. Felicia held her newborn daughter against her heart and thought of all the things she had once hoped to do with a child but had stuffed away in a box of abandoned dreams. She smiled. Now her dream of walking her child to school each morning would come true. Five years passed, and on a beautiful morning mother and daughter walked hand in hand down the sidewalk, both with brown pigtails bouncing in the warm autumn air after each happy step. Tonya’s little pink backpack was loaded with pencils, crayons, and paper, her shoes were tied

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tight, and she was convinced that she was wearing the prettiest outfit anyone had ever worn to their first day of school. Tonya looked up at her mom and giggled and beamed with excitement. They had been talking about this special day for weeks. Felicia smiled back at her beloved daughter, squeezed her hand, and said a quiet prayer of thanks for the blessing of being given such a precious child. She hadn’t just been dreaming about this day for weeks. She’d been dreaming about it for years.

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To see the smile on her face when she opens her eyes and sees me in the morning is the best part of my day.

I never thought I would be good at being a mother, but the moment I looked at my

newborn daughter’s face,

I knew I would do anything and everything for my

beautiful baby.

3

Bonded for Life Zandra had faced unfavorable odds many times in her young life. Living most of her childhood without the presence of her mother, she attended a high school where her dad was a science teacher. These circumstances made her a bit of an outcast, and she found it challenging to fit in with her peers. With her diminutive stature and meek personality, she found that she had to prove herself time and time again. But nothing she had ever faced prepared her for the reactions she encountered when it became obvious to everyone that she was pregnant.

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Made to leave school and finish her diploma from home, Zandra watched her few remaining friends pull away one at a time, and she also had to cope each day with the expression of disappointment on her father’s face when he left for work. All this paled, however, in comparison to how the whispers she overheard more and more frequently made her feel. “She has ruined her life,” “She should have an abortion,” “I hope she will put it up for adoption”—these, and more, were the sentiments spoken out loud as if the young mother-to-be wasn’t in the room. Even her doctor said she was making a mistake by planning to keep her baby and aggressively encouraged her to register with an adoption agency. What kind of mother could she be anyway, he said, not having one of her own to show her what to do? It was certainly true that her mother was not at her side to answer her growing number of questions, so Zandra threw herself into reading everything she could get her hands on about pregnancy, delivery, and the care of a newborn. What fear she might have felt during the early months of pregnancy was soon bravely brushed aside. She elected to have a natural birth with the assistance of a midwife. It was the kind midwife who reassured Zandra that it was her decision alone whether or not to keep the baby; in either case, she would be there to help Zandra bring the child into the world. Zandra was alone when her water broke. She grabbed the packed bag waiting at the front door and calmly but quickly drove herself to the hospital. Soon she was sitting up in bed in a natural birth room, breathing

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and pushing just as she was supposed to do, listening to the instructions of her trusted midwife, waiting for the moment she had been looking forward to for months. “You can help now,” the midwife said, holding the baby’s head and, with a smile, encouraging the young mother. Zandra reached down and assisted in the delivery of her own child. When she held Brittany up to examine her before hugging her against her chest, the newborn opened her eyes and looked directly into those of her mother. It was as if they both had been planning and waiting for that very moment to come. Zandra knew that she would always be a presence in her daughter’s life. And she knew, deep in her heart, that she had made the right decision—the decision to keep her precious baby.

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Mother-daughter bonding time always brings a smile to my heart and tears to my eyes.

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3

A Daughter’s Hero When thirteen-year-old Elizabeth came home from school and announced that she was supposed to write a story about the person who was her hero, Amy asked her daughter who that person would be. “Wait and see,” Elizabeth said before running off to her room. Amy thought about all the people her daughter knew and wondered just who would emerge as the teen’s hero. There were the celebrities she admired, the significant people she had learned about at school in history class, the doting grandfather—and then there was Elizabeth’s father.

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Not only was her father a great dad, he actually was a hero. Retired from the U.S. Navy, in which he had served as a deep-sea diver and rescuer, and now a renowned underwater criminologist and college professor, he had written textbooks, hosted symposiums on underwater forensics, and even played cards with a NASA astronaut or two. And to boot, Elizabeth had watched him run to the aid of a fallen man one evening, render CPR, and save the stranger’s life. That was the clincher, Amy thought, the very reason, and justifiably so, why Elizabeth would write a paper about her dad as her hero. Elizabeth busied herself with pen and paper, and Amy resumed her daily routine, neither mentioning the writing assignment again. A few days passed before it came to Amy’s attention once more. Walking into Elizabeth’s school to attend a program the parents had been invited to watch, Elizabeth’s teacher approached. “Have you read this?” he asked, holding a sheet of paper in his hand. Amy reached for the folded sheet of paper as the teacher explained, “I thought you might want to keep it.” Opening it, Amy saw the title and her knees went weak. My Mom My mom is a strong, smart, and willing person. She has done many great things and she is good at cooking, crafts, sewing, and she loves to take care of the family. She also only complains when she gets mad. My mom is awesome because she does good things to help people. She has donated money to colleges

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and to needy families. She has raised money to help cure breast cancer and she walked sixty miles in three days to raise awareness of that disease. My mom always stands up for me and gives me good advice. I know I can always go to her with my problems. She has helped me, my family, people in need, and everyone else I know. She’s always there when you need her. And I love her for it. My mom is my hero because she loves me. People say we look alike. I’m glad, and I love her, too. Amy had never been anyone’s hero until that day, but now she is honored to be the hero to the one whose opinion matters most to her— her daughter.

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3

Letting Go Becky, my ex-wife, and I have been divorced nearly fifteen years. During all of that time, we have shared joint custody of our daughter. Meagan lives for a time with Jill, Linley, and me, and then with her mom, and then back again. Our homes are less than five miles apart. Becky and I talk on the phone or e-mail one another often, negotiating agreements about extending new privileges to our daughter, who has, chronologically at least, reached adulthood. As Meagan prepared to leave home for college in the late summer of 2008, it was a time for Becky and me to come to terms with all that

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changes when your child leaves home. For one of us, dealing with those changes had proven a little more difficult than it had been for the other. As I’ve written elsewhere, my relationship with Meagan has changed over the years, but so too has her relationship with her mother. Together they still enjoy lengthy and enthusiastic conversations about boys, girlfriend spats, celebrity news, or the latest reality television show. They still shop for hours, have their hair and nails done side by side in some salon, and get dressed up to impress when going out on the town for dinner and a movie. And for a while, it was her mother whom Meagan turned to for consolation, protection, and understanding. As a woman, as a mom, it was Becky who could comprehend what I could not—at least not until I began to enjoy Jill’s interpretive support and insight. But back to the change in the relationship between Meagan and her mother. I think I was the one who was better prepared for Meagan’s inevitable departure. In the last several months before she established her new residence in a college dorm, I began to slowly release the parental reins. I gave my daughter more and more autonomy, responsibility, and discretion, making sure, I believed, that she could handle unbridled freedom before she would be gone and too far away for me to rush in and rescue her. Her mother, on the other hand, tightened her grip on the reins; she was filled with fear that her daughter, on the verge of leaping from the nest, might not be able to fly. A role reversal of sorts took place as Meagan began to call me for suggestions on how to deal with her mother, who had taken to professing tearfully, “I’m not ready for you to leave!”

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Soon my conversations with Becky were all about encouraging her to let go, to give our daughter room to breathe. She listened and agreed to at least try, yet I had my doubts about her willingness and ability to follow through with my advice. Becky had been a mother for eighteen years by then; I suppose it isn’t easy, when the time comes, for a woman to change how she conducts herself in that role. I know because I’ve had to remind Jill time and time again, often with Linley’s wink-wink and a nudge, that her daughter is fourteen years old, not four. You see, I was the one who finally got Jill to stop laying out her daughter’s clothes, to allow her child to walk through the neighborhood unaccompanied by an adult, and to use a steak knife. The day Meagan was to check into her dorm finally arrived, and we all pitched in to help her move. Becky, Jill, Meagan, Linley, and I carried box after box of clothing, bedding, school supplies, and decorating accessories into the tiny room that was to be Meagan’s new home for the next ten months. While I assembled furniture, the women unpacked and debated the perfect placement of everything—photos on the shelf over the desk, the refrigerator in that corner, handbags and shoes in this cabinet, and so on. All the while I watched for tears, not knowing who would cry first, but certain that someone would be weeping before the day was over. A few hours later, and surprisingly after not a single stress-fueled disagreement, we broke for lunch. Meagan’s new roommate and her family joined us, and soon we parents were exchanging stories across the table about our children, much to the embarrassment of the two college

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freshmen. Amid the laughter, I noticed the red blotches appearing on Becky’s neck, her telltale sign that she is choking back an emotion. Here they come, I thought. But, surprising me again, she held herself together and didn’t shed a tear. When the meal was finished, we rose to return to the dorm where we were to say our farewells. Except by then, I suppose, the anticipated pain of the approaching departure had become too much for Becky. She suddenly announced that she was leaving right then for home. Jill and I said our good-byes to her and then waited in the car while Meagan and her mother stood on the sidewalk chatting a bit. They had a lingering embrace, Meagan smiling wide and Becky turning even redder. They separated, Meagan jumped in the car with us, and Becky walked hastily toward her own car, giving only a brief wave before she disappeared inside and drove away. Back in the dorm, Meagan gave the rest of us hugs and kisses, and we parted in good cheer. While Meagan spent the rest of the day making new friends, Jill, Linley, and I drove home. On the way Linley entertained us with her daydreams of freedom and independence when she would be leaving home for college four years later. Jill scolded her for her foolishness (I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Linley roll her eyes) and then remarked on how surprised she was that Becky had held back her tears. Linley responded by making me promise to “train” her mother the same way I had “trained” Becky.

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Not until now have I ever told Jill and Linley that I knew Meagan’s mother would cry her eyes out when she was alone. And indeed she did, all the way home. I also didn’t tell Linley that I doubt my ability to help Jill let go when the time comes. I’ll explain to her later that some things are more difficult to do than others—and some are impossible.

’

You know in your head that you must let your children go, but there’s always a tug-of-war that goes on in your heart.

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3 Share

your favorite memory

Epilogue

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W

hen I began work on this book, I expected to be told stories that would prove to be very similar to those I had heard while writing Daddy’s Little Girl, but with a feminine twist. As mother-and-daughter stories came in, however, I found myself scratching my head. Instead of tall tales of heroic rescues in the middle of the night or profound life-altering discoveries and revelations that emerged from unexpected moments in unlikely places and situations, I heard something very different. True, mothers do at times wear red capes and leap tall buildings and find ways to leave indelible memories by sharing words of wisdom from the ages with their daughters, but more often than not I heard simple, sweet, gentle stories of moms being, well, moms. Daughter after daughter told me stories of moms who kept the home smelling like fresh-baked bread, sautéed onions, and hot apple pie, who could mend a garment while blindfolded or nurse an injured doll or

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stuffed animal back to health. I heard of moms who were the calming, predictable, and steady force in the household, unassuming and at times behind the scenes, yet always ready, willing, and able to step up to the challenge at hand and even wrestle it to the ground if necessary. I was also told stories of how becoming a mother herself led a daughter to look back with renewed respect and appreciation for the mothering she had received, for the unwavering love, support, and devotion that flowed from a limitless reserve, for the sense of self that, as I may finally be starting to understand, only a mother can help foster in a daughter. When I turned to my wife and shared my observations with her, she (I swear she did) made that famous gesture of her mother’s: tossing her open palm in the air and ever so slightly rolling her eyes but not before giving me that look that silently screamed, “Duh!” And then, realizing her perplexed husband needed her expertise, Jill calmed down and explained everything to me. “Dads like to address everything with an action plan,” she said. “If something’s gone wrong, you’ve got to fix it. When you hear that either of the girls is mad or unhappy, you immediately feel like you have to get to the bottom of it so that it can be repaired. Moms understand that sometimes girls are just in a snit and need to whine and wail. There’s no need for an action plan. They just need to vent.” Before I could point out the frivolity of such a non-action plan, she went on.

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EPILOGUE

“Just look at the stories you’ve been telling me about. Moms are consistently doing what mothers do, day in and day out, providing, comforting, and caring. Dads rush in and fix things or come to the rescue and get credit for large gestures and major decisions, but really it’s the moms who quietly maintain the equilibrium in a family. Dads succeed at so many big moments because the moms have already handled so many of the smaller moments.” I had been thinking and scribbling, writing late at night after the others had fallen asleep, and jotting down notes while waiting for traffic lights to change, all the while probing my brain looking for the profound truism that would serve as the central theme of this book, but it wasn’t until that conversation with Jill that it all became so clear. I guess I should have gone to my wife with my questions in the first place. She is, after all, both a mother and a daughter. It was she who told me that the role of this book would be to reassure moms that their position in their children’s lives, especially the lives of their daughters, is secured by all the many day-to-day things they do. It is a mother’s constant presence, her constant attention to doing what needs to be done for them, all the loving and nurturing behind the small but meaningful gestures she brings to every day of their lives, the unending giving of herself—all of this is what gives her children roots. And so it is that just as mothers and fathers play different roles in their daughters’ lives, they make different imprints too. As I mentioned in the introduction, I believe that my relationship with Meagan and Linley is

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better than it would otherwise be because of the help and influence of their mothers. I confess that when I first made that claim, I did not fully understand why I held it to be true. But now, thanks to Jill, I understand it very well. I once wrote elsewhere that daughters need moms because dads cannot be everything for them. I know now, better than I did when I first put those words to paper, that daughters need moms to help them grow into the wonderful women they have the potential to become. In my family, this is proven each and every day.

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EPILOGUE

Tell Me Your Stories

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P

eople in all times and places have told stories. Stories have probably been shared in every family in every culture as a way to entertain each other, preserve family history, and instill knowledge, wisdom, and moral values in youth. Traditionally, family stories were passed from generation to generation in the car during road trips, from a rocking chair on the porch, around the dinner table, at family reunions, weddings, and funerals, and whenever the need arose to help a member of the family better understand a significant life event or challenge. Such stories are often lessons that still teach even though generations may have passed since the events of the story originally unfolded. All too often, because so many family stories survive only in memory, they slowly fade away. I would like to capture important family stories while they are still fresh in the hearts and minds of those who tell them. I want to give longevity to stories about family, love, and faith that can inspire others for years, even generations, to come.

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If you have an inspirational story to share, one you think others would enjoy and perhaps learn an important life lesson from, please tell it to me. S U B M I T YO U R S T O R I E S T O :

Gregory E. Lang 3455 Peachtree Industrial Blvd. Suite 305–306 Duluth, GA 30096 Or post your story over the Internet at: www.gregoryelang.com. To contact me, send an e-mail to: [email protected].

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T E L L M E YO U R S T O R I E S

Acknowledgments

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The writing of Mom’s Little Angel: Stories of the Special Bond Between Mothers and Daughters has been a journey of labor, love, and discovery, a journey that I could not have experienced without the generous support and encouragement of many people. I would like to give a heartfelt thanks to the following: My wife, Jill, who once again did more than her fair share of work around our home and for our family during the months that I worked on this project; who explained to me what I could not understand about mother-daughter relationships; and who worked patiently with me reading revision after revision of this book. She contributes far more to my success than she gets credit for. I love her beyond measure; she is my best friend. My editor, Cynthia DiTiberio, who patiently guided me through the development, rewrites, and finishing touches of this book, and who

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continues to encourage me. Cynthia, I look forward to working on our next book together. And thanks for helping me to develop a new voice; this is the way I’ve wanted to write for a long time. My agent, Andrew Stuart, who gave me an opportunity to stretch my wings (or at least my quill) and prove myself when he introduced me to HarperOne. Thank you, Andrew, for finding a new home for me. My family, friends, and neighbors who stayed patient with me as I posed, reposed, and posed them again in a vain effort to capture the perfect photographs to illustrate this book. Thank you all for being the faces to accompany my words. I also wish to thank all the mothers and daughters who told me heartwarming, poignant, and sometimes difficult stories about their relationships. Without their willingness to share the details of their lives, this book could not have been written. Not every story told to me made it into this book, but every story helped me tremendously in each word I wrote. Furthermore, my life is richer because of the relationships I’ve formed with those who so generously and patiently allowed me to probe into their lives. May many blessings come to you all. And finally, I wish to thank my parents, Gene and Dianne Lang, who have been my best teachers of all things about parenting during the last forty-nine years. How they have managed to put up with me for so long, I don’t know.

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A C K N OW L E D G M E N T S

About the Author GREGORY E. LANG is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who has sold over 2 million copies of his books, including Daddy’s Little Girl, Why a Daughter Needs a Dad, and Why a Daughter Needs a Mom. He has a Ph.D. in child and family development and lives in Atlanta with his wife, Jill, and their two daughters, Meagan and Linley. Visit the author online at www.gregoryelang.com.

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Credits Photos: Courtesy of Gregory E. Lang

Copyright Stories of the Special Bond Between Mothers and Daughters. Copyright © 2009 by Gregory E. Lang. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. MOM’S LITTLE ANGEL:

Adobe Acrobat eBook Reader January 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-184074-6 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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