Chicken Soup for the Parent's Soul Stories of Love, Laughter
and the Rewards of Parenting
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Contents
Introduction
1. THE JOYS OF PARENTING
The Pickle Jar A. W. Cobb
Geraniums of Love Harriet Xanthakos
The Tooth Fairy Elaine Decker
Let’s Go Fly a Kite Robert Dixon as told to Zan Gaudioso
The Photograph Album Alvin Abram
The Spinner Plate Lori Broadfoot
Daddy Laurin Broadbent
Comic-Book Solomon Gary Lautens
Driving Me Crazy Beth Mullally
I’m Okay Rabona Gordon
2. A MOTHER’S LOVE
On Becoming a Stepmother Janie Emaus
The Other Mother Jewel Sanders
Daddy’s Hair Is Red The Best of Bits & Pieces
I Live with an Alien Janie Emaus
A Time for Love Noreen Wyper
When He Sleeps Josie Lauritsen
Defining Love Eileen Goltz
Housewife’s Prayer Sheila Hammock Gosney
My Wife Doesn’t “Work” Gary Lautens
The Gift of Life Beryl Paintin
A Mother’s Love Revealed Nicole Smith
Cyberstepmother Judy E. Carter
3. A FATHER’S LOVE
My Ray of Hope Robert Dixon as told to Zan Gaudioso
Hidden Green Words Sarah J. Vogt with Ron Vogt
Hey Son, I Love You, Too D. L. Stewart
It Takes a Special Man to Fill a Stepfather’s Shoes Beth Mullally
The Toaster Judy E. Carter
A Letter to the IRS Bob Mullen
Advice from the Groom’s Dad Gary Lautens
4. SPECIAL CONNECTIONS
Against All Odds Elizabeth Enns
A Hundred and One Atlantic Nights Jan Meek with Daniel Byles as told to
Janet Matthews
From the Heart Nancy McBee
The Navy’s Baby Janet Matthews with Dan Keenan
Embassy of Hope David Like
What Odds? Lou Ogston
The Bungee That Binds Mary Hiland
Joey Comes Home Cheryl Kierstead
5. SPECIAL MOMENTS
Something to Make Me Happy Sharon Palmer
A Father’s Day Phone Call George Eyre Masters
Monsters Under the Bed Anne Metikosh
The Special Olympics Bits & Pieces
Keeping the Magic Kittie Ellis
Love of a Child Brian Locke
Self-Esteem at Five Kathrine A. Barhydt
The Window C. J. Herrmann
“You’re Having a Baby!” Louisa Godissart McQuillen
Welcome, Levi! Dawn and Tim Johnson
There Is So Much to Learn Leo Buscaglia
6. INSIGHTS AND LESSONS
True Generosity Elizabeth Cobb
Maya’s Smile Susan Farr-Fahncke
I’m Not Your Slave Christie A. Hansen
The Millionaire William G. Wood
Teen Wisdom Margaret Hill
What Parents Say/What Parents Actually Mean Andy Skidmore
Man Plans and God Laughs Hanoch McCarty
Message from a Guardian Angel Joe Tye
Daddy’s Day Cheryl Costello-Forshey
I Believe in Angels Wendy Ann Lowden
7. OVERCOMING OBSTACLES
The Light at the End of the Tunnel Bobbi Bisserier
My Son, My Grandson Debbie Rikley
Tough Love Wins the Day Marina Tennyson as told to Bill Holton
A Voice for Elizabeth David Zinman
My Daughter’s Smile Lori Thomas as told to Darlene Montgomery
A Heart in the Shadows Sharon Peerless
8. SURVIVING LOSS
Erin’s Legacy of Love Douglas Kramp as told to Darlene Montgomery
My Message M. Schneider as told to Zan Gaudioso
Forgiveness Mary-Ann Joustra Borstad
Held in Our Hearts Forever Diane C. Nicholson
A Dolphin Wish Fulfilled Christy Chappelear Andrews
I Miss You Most at Christmas Andrea Warren
The Day My Daughter Died Marguerite Annen
Cori’s Beads Chris Lloyd
Rachel’s Gift Kevin Hann
9. LETTING GO
Watching Me Go Diane Tullson
The Video of Life Beverley Bolger Gordon
The Parting Doreen S. Austman
Dancing in the Street Raymond Aaron
The End of Childhood Ellyn L. Geisel
A Gift from Brandon Myrna Flood
Words That Bind David Zinman
Mapping Life’s Journey on the Refrigerator Door Beth Mullally
10. ACROSS THE GENERATIONS
Bedtime Stories Across the Miles Ruth Ayers
Miriam’s Umbrella Bill Petch
Grandma Meyer’s Gift Paula Mathers as told to Bill Holton
From Mother to Daughter to Mother Barbara Bartocci
Who Is Jack Canfield?
Who Is Mark Victor Hansen?
Who Is Kimberly Kirberger?
Who Is Raymond Aaron?
Contributors
Permissions
Introduction
The relationship between parent and child is the deepest, most intense
and richest in all our human experience. As we watch our children grow
from babyhood to adulthood, we experience the full spectrum of emotions,
from the heights of total elation to the depths of sorrow. Parenthood is
complex and the experiences we have raising our children can be a mixed
bag, both good and bad. Our goal in creating Chicken Soup for the Parent’s
Soul is to inspire, uplift and honor parents everywhere—to allow them to
feel good about being parents and to help them know that during the
difficult times, they are not alone.
Over the past two and a half years, we read more than five thousand
stories to find the ones we present to you now. We were so amazed and
touched by the depth of feelings and the range of experiences that people
shared with us. We read stories about the joys of giving birth, the awe of
being a new parent, and the struggles and complexities associated with
being a family. People told us of their deep grief at the loss of a beloved
child, and shared with us how they found the strength and courage to move
on.
We were moved by the touching stories about the struggles and triumphs
of being a parent of a “special needs” child, as well as the stories where
parents and children were separated because of war, divorce or adoption,
then miraculously and exultantly found each other again.
We received stories from parents of new babies, toddlers, teenagers,
young and aging adults, as well as stories from young parents, old parents,
married parents, single parents, stepparents, foster parents and widowed
parents.
Through our contact with some of these writers we realize they came to
some kind of personal closure or resolution as a result of writing their story.
We hope that as you read these stories you are able to capture something
special from them and apply it to your own life. May you experience the
miracles of love and inspiration when you read this book. May it touch your
heart and move your spirit, as it has done for us.
And so, from our hearts to yours, we offer you Chicken Soup for the
Parent’s Soul. This book is our gift to you, the parents of the world.
1
THE JOYS OF
PARENTING
What gift has Providence bestowed on man that is so dear to him
as his children?
Cicero
The Pickle Jar
His heritage to his children wasn’t words or possessions, but an
unspoken treasure, the treasure of his example as a man and a father.
Will Rogers
As far back as I can remember, the large pickle jar sat on the floor beside
the dresser in my parents’ bedroom. When Dad got ready for bed, he would
empty his pockets and toss his coins into the jar. As a small boy I was
always fascinated at the sounds the coins made as they were dropped into
the jar. They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty.
Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was filled. I used to
squat on the floor in front of the jar and admire the copper and silver circles
that glinted like a pirate’s treasure when the sun poured through the
bedroom window.
When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and roll the
coins before taking them to the bank. Taking the coins to the bank was
always a big production. Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins
were placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck. Each and
every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me hopefully.
“Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son. You’re going
to do better than me. This old mill town’s not going to hold you back.”
Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the
counter at the bank toward the cashier, he would grin proudly. “These are
for my son’s college fund. He’ll never work at the mill all his life like me.”
We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice cream
cone. I always had chocolate. Dad always had vanilla. When the clerk at the
ice cream parlor handed Dad his change, he would show me the few coins
nestled in his palm. “When we get home, we’ll start filling the jar again.”
He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattled
around with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other. “You’ll get to
college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters,” he said. “But you’ll get
there. I’ll see to that.”
The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town.
Once, while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their bedroom and
noticed that the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose and had been
removed. A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside the dresser
where the jar had always stood. My dad was a man of few words, and he
never lectured me on the values of determination, perseverance and faith.
The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than the
most flowery of words could have done.
When I married, I told my wife Susan about the significant part the lowly
pickle jar had played in my life. In my mind, it defined, more than anything
else, how much my dad had loved me. No matter how rough things got at
home, Dad continued to doggedly drop his coins into the jar. Even the
summer when Dad got laid off from the mill, and Mama had to serve dried
beans several times a week, not a single dime was taken from the jar. To the
contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me, pouring catsup over my
beans to make them more palatable, he became more determined than ever
to make a way out for me. “When you finish college, son,” he told me, his
eyes glistening, “you’ll never have to eat beans again unless you want to.”
The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born, we spent the
holiday with my parents. After dinner, Mom and Dad sat next to each other
on the sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica began to
whimper softly, and Susan took her from Dad’s arms. “She probably needs
to be changed,” she said, carrying the baby into my parents’ bedroom to
diaper her.
When Susan came back into the living room, there was a strange mist in
her eyes. She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand and
quietly leading me into the room. “Look,” she said softly, her eyes directing
me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser. To my amazement, there, as if it
had never been removed, stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already
covered with coins.
I walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out
a fistful of coins. With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped the
coins into the jar. I looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had
slipped quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling
the same emotions I felt. Neither of us could speak.
A. W. Cobb
“No, enhancing family values does not
mean raising your allowance.”
Reprinted by permission of Dave Carpenter.
Geraniums of Love
Thou are thy mother’s glass, and she in thee calls back the lovely April
of her prime.
William Shakespeare
As the fifth of seven children, I went to the same public school as my
three older sisters and brother. Every year, my mother went to the same
pageant and had parent/ child interviews with the same teachers. The only
thing different was the child. And every child participated in an old school
tradition—the annual plant sale held in early May, just in time for Mother’s
Day.
Third grade was the first time that I was allowed to take part in the plant
sale. I wanted to surprise my mother, but I didn’t have any money. I went to
my oldest sister and shared the secret, and she gave me some money. When
I arrived at the plant sale, I carefully made my selection. I agonized over
that decision, inspecting each plant to ensure that I had indeed found the
best geranium. Once I had smuggled it home, with the help of my sister, I
hid it on the upstairs neighbor’s porch. I was very afraid my mother would
find it before Mother’s Day, but my sister assured me that she wouldn’t, and
indeed she did not.
When Mother’s Day arrived, I was bursting with pride when I gave her
that geranium. I remember how bright her eyes were, and how delighted she
was with my gift.
The year I was fifteen, my younger sister reached third grade. In early
May she came to me full of wonder and secrecy and told me that there was
going to be a plant sale at school, and she wanted to surprise our mother.
Like my older sister did for me, I gave her some money and off she went.
She arrived home full of nervous excitement, the geranium hidden in a
paper bag under her sweater. “I looked at every plant,” she explained, “and
I know I got the best one!”
With a sweet sense of déjà vu, I helped my little sister hide that geranium
on the upstairs neighbor’s porch, assuring her that our mother would not
find it before Mother’s Day. I was there when she gave my mother the
geranium, and I watched them both bursting with pride and delight. It was
like being in a dream I had already dreamed. My mother noticed me
watching, and she gave me a soft, secret smile. With a tug at my heart, I
smiled back. I had been wondering how my mother could pretend to be
surprised at this gift from her sixth child, but as I watched her eyes light up
with delight as she was presented with that most precious gift, I knew she
was not pretending.
Harriet Xanthakos
