Chicken Soup stories
Taken from Chicken Soup series (randomly)
The Magic Jar Years
One day a mother brought home a small jar and gave it to her little girl on her birthday. She told her little girl that the jar was magic, and she could write to her mommy about anything in the world, put it in the jar, and later, in its place, there would be a note for her. Soon the jar became a special part of their lives.
The little girl loved to get letters from her mommy. They always told her how special she was and had lots of XXXXs and OOOOs on them. Often there were reminders of something special they had planned together the next day, or a good luck letter if there was a dance recital coming up. Sometimes, too, there would be a little gift in the jar and a note telling hew how proud her mommy was of her. She kept all of her mommy's letters in a pretty box by her bed.
The mother treasured each of her little girl's letters too.
There were crayoned "I love yous," tea-party invitations, requests for ballet slippers, and even some Mother's Day cards that had been folded and folded and folded just to fit in the jar. Those always made the mother smile. There was one where her little girl told her she was afraid of the dark, and that very night a small light was placed in her room, and all was well. Another favorite came when their dog Muffin was expecting puppies; there in the jar was a little not that read, "You're going to be a grandma!" The mother kept all of those very special letters safely tucked in a chest at the end of her bed.
As the years went by, that little girl grew into a young lady and then got married and started a home of her own. For the first time, the jar sat empty. The mother dusted the jar every day and sometimes looked inside, remembering—sad that the magic jar years had to end.
One day the young lady came to visit her mother. She went straight to her mother's room, opened the chest at the end of her bed, and found what she was looking for She folded the piece of paper and put it in the the jar, and handed it to her mother. The mother opened the magic jar and there was that note from so long ago, "You're going to be a grandma!"
And when that baby boy was born months later, there was the jar sitting in his nursery with a blue bow tied around it, and a note tact read, "Magic jar years never end; they are always just beginning."
-Cassie Marie Moore
***********************
What It Means to Be Adopted
Teacher Debbie Moon's first-graders were discussing a picture of a family. One little boy in the picture had different color hair than the other family members.
One child suggested that he was adopted, and a little girl named Jocelynn Jay said, "I know all about adoptions because I'm adopted."
"What does it mean to be adopted?" asked another child.
"It means," said Jocelynn, "that you grew in your mother's heart instead of her tummy."
-George Dolan
***************
No Charge
Our little boy came up to his mother in the kitchen one evening while she was fixing supper, and he handed her a piece of paper that he had been writing on. After his mom dried her hands on an apron, she read it, and this is what it said:
For cutting the grass, $5.00
For cleaning up my room this week, $1.00
For going to the store for you, $ .50
Baby-sitting my kid brother while you went shopping, $ .25
Taking out the garbage, $1.00
For getting a good report card, $5.00
For cleaning up and raking the yard, $2.00
Total owed: $14.75
Well, I'll tell you, his mother looked at him standing there expectantly, and boy, could I see the memories flashing through her mind. So she picked up the pen, turned over the paper he'd written on, and this is what she wrote:
For the nine months I carried you while you were growing inside me, No Charge.
For all the nights that I've sat up with you, doctored and prayed for you, No Charge.
For all the trying times, and all the tears that you've caused through the years, there's No Charge.
When you add it all up, the cost of my love is No Charge.
For all the nights that were filled with dread, and for the worries I knew were ahead, No Charge.
For the toys, food, clothes, and even wiping your nose, there's No Charge, Son.
And when you add it all up, the full cost of real love is No Charge.
Well, friends, when our son finished reading what his mother had written, there were great big old tears in his eyes, and he looked straight up at his mother and said, "Mom, I sure do love you." And then he took the pen and in great big letters he wrote: "PAID IN FULL."
-M. Adams
***********
Oscar, the Garbage-Can Kitty
Oscar was named after the Sesame Street character who lives in a garbage can because that is where we first became acquainted. I was working at a pizza-delivery chain and had been assigned garbage duty. While tossing bags into a Dumpster, I heard a faint meow. I began digging through the trash, and several layers down I found a cat—bruised and thin. I wasn’t sure if the cat had crawled into the Dumpster to scavenge for food or if he had been put there purposely. Our establishment sat directly behind an apartment complex, and unsupervised and abandoned pets were common.
Back on solid ground, it became evident that the cat had an injured leg. He couldn’t put any weight on his right hindquarters. The situation created a dilemma for me. Finances were tight, and I was moving back home to my parents’ house—with two cats already in tow. Dad barely tolerated the two established felines. His reaction to another injured stray was sure to be less than receptive. I took the stray to the vet, hoping to patch him up. After shots and X-rays, the vet discovered the cat had a cracked pelvis. I posted notices, hoping someone would claim the cat or adopt him.
Meanwhile, the response at home was swift and firm: No more cats! Dad insisted I take the cat to the Humane Society immediately. I protested that the cat would be put to sleep. Luckily, my mother intervened. She agreed the injury would make the cat unadoptable, so we would keep him long enough for his hip to heal. Then he would have to go—no arguments.
Oscar must have somehow understood his situation. He seemed to study the other two cats and their interactions with my father. We suspect he bribed Tanner, our golden retriever, with table scraps in exchange for etiquette lessons. When the other cats were aloof, Oscar was attentive. He came when his name was called, and he would roll over on his back to have his belly scratched. As his injury began to heal, he would jump on the ottoman by my father’s favorite chair, and, eventually, into his lap. Initially, Dad pushed Oscar away, but persistence paid off. Soon, Oscar and a muttering Dad shared the chair. At mealtimes, Oscar would come to sit with us.
Positioned on the floor by my father’s chair, every so often Oscar would reach up with one paw and tap Dad on the knee. At first, this provoked great irritation and colorful expletives expressed in harsh tones. Oscar, however, refused to be put off. Repetitive knee-taps soon led to semi-covert handouts of choice morsels.
Oscar greeted my father at the top of the stairs every morning and waited for him at the door every evening. My father sometimes ignored Oscar, and, at other times, stepped over him, complaining the whole time. Oscar mastered opening doors by sticking his paw underneath the door and rocking it back and forth until it opened. Soon, he was sleeping in the master bedroom at the foot of the bed. My father was completely disgusted, but couldn’t stop the cat from sneaking onto the bed while they were sleeping. Eventually, Dad gave up.
Before long, Oscar, aspiring to his own place at the table during meals, began jumping up into my lap. He was allowed to stay as long as his head remained below table level. Of course, an occasional paw would appear as a reminder of his presence.
Three months passed, and the vet pronounced Oscar healthy and healed. I was heartbroken. How could I take this loving soul away from what had become his home, from the people he trusted? Sick at heart, I brought Oscar home and told my parents what should have been good news: Oscar was a healthy cat with a healed hip. “I’ll take him to the Humane Society like I promised,” I said dully. As I turned to put Oscar in the carrier for the trip, my father spoke, uttering three magic words: “Not my cat!” Oscar is home to stay. He now has his own chair at the table and sleeps—where else?—in the master bedroom between my mother and father. He is their official “grandkitten” and living proof that deep within the most unlikely heart, there is a cat lover in all of us.
-Kathleen Kennedy
********************
The Christmas Star
This was my grandmother's first Christmas without Grandfather, and we had promised him before he passed away that we would make this her best Christmas ever. When my mom, dad, three sisters and I arrived at her little house in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, we found she had waited up all night for us to arrive from Texas. After we exchanged hugs, Donna, Karen, Kristi and I ran into the house. It did seem a little empty without Grandfather, and we knew it was up to us to make this Christmas special for her.
Grandfather had always said that the Christmas tree was the most important decoration of all. So we immediately set to work assembling the beautiful artificial tree that was stored in Grandfather's closet. Although artificial, it was the most geniuine-looking Douglas fir I had ever seen. Tucked away in the closet with the tree was a spectacular array of ornaments, many of which had been my father's when he was a little boy. As we unwrapped each one, Grandmother had a story to go along with it. My mother strung the tree with bright white lights and a red button garland; my sisters and I carefully placed the ornaments on the tree; and finally, Father was given the honor of lighting the tree.
We stepped back to admire our handiwork. To us, it looked magnificent, as beautiful as the tree in Rockefeller Center. But something was missing.
"Where's your star?" I asked.
The star was my grandmother's favorite part of the tree.
"Why, it must be here somewhere," she said, starting to sort through the boxes again. "Your grandfather always packed everything so carefully when he took the tree down."
As we emptied box after box and found no star, my grandmother's eyes filled with tears. This was no ordinary ornament, but an elaborate golden star covered with colored jewels and blue lights that blinked on and off. Moreover, Grandfather had given it to Grandmother some fifty years ago, on their first Christmas together. Now, on her first Chirstmas without him, the star was gone too.
"Don't worry, Grandmother." I reassured her. "We'll find it for you."
My sistems and I formed a search party.
"Let's start in the closed where the ornaments were," Donna said. "Maybe the box just fell down."
That sounded logical, so we climbed on a chair and began to search that tall closet of Grandfather's. We found Father's old yearbooks and photographs of relatives, Christmas cards from years gone by, and party dresses and jewelry boxes, but no star.
We searched under beds and over shelves, inside and outside, until we had exhausted every possibility. We could see Grandmother was disappointed, although she tried not to show it.
"We could buy a new star," Kristi offered.
"I'll make you one from construction paper." Karen chimed in."
"No," Grandmother said. "This year, we won't have a star."
By now it was dark outside, and time for bed, as Santa would soon be here. We lay in bed, snowflakes falling quietly outside.
The next morning, my sisters and I woke up early, as was our habit on Christmas day -- first, to see what Santa had left under the tree, and second, to look for the Christmas star in the sky. After a traditional breakfast of apple pancakes, the family sat down together to open presents. Santa had brought me the Eask-Bake Oven I wanted, and Donna a Chatty-Cathy doll. Karen was thrilled to get the doll buggy she had asked for, and Kristi to get the china tea set. Father was in charge of passing out the presents, so that everyone would have something to open at the same time.
"The last gift is to Grandmother from Grandfather," he said, in a puzzled voice.
"From who?" There was surprise in my grandmother's voice.
"I found that gift in Grandfather's closet when we got the tree down," Mother explained. "It was already wrapped so I put it under the tree. I thought it was one of yours."
"Hurry and open in," Karen urged excitedly.
My grandmother shakily opened the box. Her face lit up with joy when she unfolded the tissue paper and pulled out a glorious golden star. There was a note attached.
Her voice trembled as she read it aloud:
Don't be angry with me, dear. I broke your star while putting away the decorations, and I couldn't bear to tell you. Thought it was time for a new one. I hope it brings you as much joy as the first one. Merry Christmas.
Love,
Bryant
So Grandmother's tree had a star after all, a star that expressed my grandparents' everlasting love for one another. It brought by grandfather home for Christmas in each of our hearts and made it our best Christmas ever.
-Susan Adair
**************
"One Day You'll Look Back on This . . ."
I've learned to take time for myself and to treat myself with a great deal of love and respect 'cause I like me. . . . I think I'm kind of cool.- Whoopi Goldberg
"I can't go to school like this!" I wailed as I stared into my mirror, hating my face, my body and life in general. A river of salty tears traced a path down my cheeks. Summoned from the kitchen by my shrieking, my mother appeared at my side a second later.
"What's the problem?" she asked patiently.
"Everything . . . just everything!" I complained and continued to stare horrified into the mirror.
At almost thirteen, the problems that I felt I had were overwhelming. I had a hideous new crop of angry, red pimples that had erupted on my forehead and chin overnight—every night. My hair suddenly looked greasy all the time, even though I washed it every second day. My aching tummy signaled that my newfound "friend" was about to visit once again, causing my jeans to fit too snugly and make me appear as though I had been eating nothing but hot fudge sundaes. And to top it off, my chewed-up fingernails were torn and bloody, since biting them seemed to go along with the way I worried about how other people perceived me. But everything that was bothering me wasn't just on the surface—I also had a broken heart.
The guy I had been going out with had recently dumped me in favor of an older, more developed girl. Everything combined, I was a physical and emotional wreck.
"Come on, now, Honey. Try not to cry," my mother said with a smile. "I remember what it was like to be your age. It was awkward and frustrating, and I got my heart stomped on, too, but I came through it—and so will you! It's not as bad as you think, and once you get to school with all your friends, you'll forget all about your pimples and what's-his-name, and one day you'll look back on this and wonder why you were ever so upset."
Convinced that she didn't know what she was talking about, I gave her a dirty look and headed off for school, greeting my girlfriends on the sidewalk while my mother waved encouragingly from the front door. Later, as much as I hated to admit it, I found out that my mother was right. As I spent time with my friends who were going through the same things that I was, my mind wasn't on my troubles anymore, and soon I was laughing.
When I returned home later that day, I was in a much better mood and because I had put my best foot forward, my mother rewarded me with a bag of goodies she had purchased from the drugstore. On my bed was a bag that included shampoo and conditioner, some acne medication, a gift certificate to a hair salon and, surprisingly, some hot, new shades of nail polish.
"What on earth is this?" I asked bewildered, thinking that my mother had to be out of her mind if she thought I was going to flaunt my gnarled nails.
As it turned out, she had a plan. I thought that it was cruel at the time, yet it turned out to be highly effective. I wasn't allowed to have any of the stuff in the bag, nor was I allowed to keep my ever-so-important stick of concealer. The deal was that for each week that I didn't bite my fingernails, one item of my choice would be returned to me. Desperate to retrieve my makeup and to get my hands on everything in the drugstore bag, I concentrated heavily on my schoolwork, instead of biting my nails and worrying about what people thought of me. Over the next few weeks, I was thrilled to watch my nails grow. By the time I earned the certificate to have my hair cut and restyled, my nails were so long that my mother also treated me to a manicure while we were at the salon. And as time wore on, I began to see that I was getting through the rough spot, just as she had promised I would. I liked that I received so many compliments on my hands and hair, but more than that, I was proud of myself for sticking with the deal and improving myself in the process—so proud, as a matter of fact, that I failed to notice my acne slowly clearing up. And I couldn't have cared less about what's-his-name. He quickly became a distant memory as I began to date many different boys, some of whom broke my heart and others whose hearts I broke.
Though it certainly wasn't my last acne outbreak, bad hair day or crushed spirit, I did learn something. I will hold with me forever my mother's words of wisdom: "One day you'll look back on this and wonder why you were ever so upset."
Years later, after several ups and downs in my life, I look back and realize that I did come through it all and I am the better for it. I only hope that if one day I have a daughter who is experiencing the struggles of adolescence, I will be as understanding, helpful and creative as my mother was with me.
-Laurie Lonsdale
******************
The Magic Jar Years
One day a mother brought home a small jar and gave it to her little girl on her birthday. She told her little girl that the jar was magic, and she could write to her mommy about anything in the world, put it in the jar, and later, in its place, there would be a note for her. Soon the jar became a special part of their lives.
The little girl loved to get letters from her mommy. They always told her how special she was and had lots of XXXXs and OOOOs on them. Often there were reminders of something special they had planned together the next day, or a good luck letter if there was a dance recital coming up. Sometimes, too, there would be a little gift in the jar and a note telling hew how proud her mommy was of her. She kept all of her mommy's letters in a pretty box by her bed.
The mother treasured each of her little girl's letters too.
There were crayoned "I love yous," tea-party invitations, requests for ballet slippers, and even some Mother's Day cards that had been folded and folded and folded just to fit in the jar. Those always made the mother smile. There was one where her little girl told her she was afraid of the dark, and that very night a small light was placed in her room, and all was well. Another favorite came when their dog Muffin was expecting puppies; there in the jar was a little not that read, "You're going to be a grandma!" The mother kept all of those very special letters safely tucked in a chest at the end of her bed.
As the years went by, that little girl grew into a young lady and then got married and started a home of her own. For the first time, the jar sat empty. The mother dusted the jar every day and sometimes looked inside, remembering—sad that the magic jar years had to end.
One day the young lady came to visit her mother. She went straight to her mother's room, opened the chest at the end of her bed, and found what she was looking for She folded the piece of paper and put it in the the jar, and handed it to her mother. The mother opened the magic jar and there was that note from so long ago, "You're going to be a grandma!"
And when that baby boy was born months later, there was the jar sitting in his nursery with a blue bow tied around it, and a note tact read, "Magic jar years never end; they are always just beginning."
-Cassie Marie Moore
***********************
What It Means to Be Adopted
Teacher Debbie Moon's first-graders were discussing a picture of a family. One little boy in the picture had different color hair than the other family members.
One child suggested that he was adopted, and a little girl named Jocelynn Jay said, "I know all about adoptions because I'm adopted."
"What does it mean to be adopted?" asked another child.
"It means," said Jocelynn, "that you grew in your mother's heart instead of her tummy."
-George Dolan
***************
No Charge
Our little boy came up to his mother in the kitchen one evening while she was fixing supper, and he handed her a piece of paper that he had been writing on. After his mom dried her hands on an apron, she read it, and this is what it said:
For cutting the grass, $5.00
For cleaning up my room this week, $1.00
For going to the store for you, $ .50
Baby-sitting my kid brother while you went shopping, $ .25
Taking out the garbage, $1.00
For getting a good report card, $5.00
For cleaning up and raking the yard, $2.00
Total owed: $14.75
Well, I'll tell you, his mother looked at him standing there expectantly, and boy, could I see the memories flashing through her mind. So she picked up the pen, turned over the paper he'd written on, and this is what she wrote:
For the nine months I carried you while you were growing inside me, No Charge.
For all the nights that I've sat up with you, doctored and prayed for you, No Charge.
For all the trying times, and all the tears that you've caused through the years, there's No Charge.
When you add it all up, the cost of my love is No Charge.
For all the nights that were filled with dread, and for the worries I knew were ahead, No Charge.
For the toys, food, clothes, and even wiping your nose, there's No Charge, Son.
And when you add it all up, the full cost of real love is No Charge.
Well, friends, when our son finished reading what his mother had written, there were great big old tears in his eyes, and he looked straight up at his mother and said, "Mom, I sure do love you." And then he took the pen and in great big letters he wrote: "PAID IN FULL."
-M. Adams
***********
Oscar, the Garbage-Can Kitty
Oscar was named after the Sesame Street character who lives in a garbage can because that is where we first became acquainted. I was working at a pizza-delivery chain and had been assigned garbage duty. While tossing bags into a Dumpster, I heard a faint meow. I began digging through the trash, and several layers down I found a cat—bruised and thin. I wasn’t sure if the cat had crawled into the Dumpster to scavenge for food or if he had been put there purposely. Our establishment sat directly behind an apartment complex, and unsupervised and abandoned pets were common.
Back on solid ground, it became evident that the cat had an injured leg. He couldn’t put any weight on his right hindquarters. The situation created a dilemma for me. Finances were tight, and I was moving back home to my parents’ house—with two cats already in tow. Dad barely tolerated the two established felines. His reaction to another injured stray was sure to be less than receptive. I took the stray to the vet, hoping to patch him up. After shots and X-rays, the vet discovered the cat had a cracked pelvis. I posted notices, hoping someone would claim the cat or adopt him.
Meanwhile, the response at home was swift and firm: No more cats! Dad insisted I take the cat to the Humane Society immediately. I protested that the cat would be put to sleep. Luckily, my mother intervened. She agreed the injury would make the cat unadoptable, so we would keep him long enough for his hip to heal. Then he would have to go—no arguments.
Oscar must have somehow understood his situation. He seemed to study the other two cats and their interactions with my father. We suspect he bribed Tanner, our golden retriever, with table scraps in exchange for etiquette lessons. When the other cats were aloof, Oscar was attentive. He came when his name was called, and he would roll over on his back to have his belly scratched. As his injury began to heal, he would jump on the ottoman by my father’s favorite chair, and, eventually, into his lap. Initially, Dad pushed Oscar away, but persistence paid off. Soon, Oscar and a muttering Dad shared the chair. At mealtimes, Oscar would come to sit with us.
Positioned on the floor by my father’s chair, every so often Oscar would reach up with one paw and tap Dad on the knee. At first, this provoked great irritation and colorful expletives expressed in harsh tones. Oscar, however, refused to be put off. Repetitive knee-taps soon led to semi-covert handouts of choice morsels.
Oscar greeted my father at the top of the stairs every morning and waited for him at the door every evening. My father sometimes ignored Oscar, and, at other times, stepped over him, complaining the whole time. Oscar mastered opening doors by sticking his paw underneath the door and rocking it back and forth until it opened. Soon, he was sleeping in the master bedroom at the foot of the bed. My father was completely disgusted, but couldn’t stop the cat from sneaking onto the bed while they were sleeping. Eventually, Dad gave up.
Before long, Oscar, aspiring to his own place at the table during meals, began jumping up into my lap. He was allowed to stay as long as his head remained below table level. Of course, an occasional paw would appear as a reminder of his presence.
Three months passed, and the vet pronounced Oscar healthy and healed. I was heartbroken. How could I take this loving soul away from what had become his home, from the people he trusted? Sick at heart, I brought Oscar home and told my parents what should have been good news: Oscar was a healthy cat with a healed hip. “I’ll take him to the Humane Society like I promised,” I said dully. As I turned to put Oscar in the carrier for the trip, my father spoke, uttering three magic words: “Not my cat!” Oscar is home to stay. He now has his own chair at the table and sleeps—where else?—in the master bedroom between my mother and father. He is their official “grandkitten” and living proof that deep within the most unlikely heart, there is a cat lover in all of us.
-Kathleen Kennedy
********************
The Christmas Star
This was my grandmother's first Christmas without Grandfather, and we had promised him before he passed away that we would make this her best Christmas ever. When my mom, dad, three sisters and I arrived at her little house in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, we found she had waited up all night for us to arrive from Texas. After we exchanged hugs, Donna, Karen, Kristi and I ran into the house. It did seem a little empty without Grandfather, and we knew it was up to us to make this Christmas special for her.
Grandfather had always said that the Christmas tree was the most important decoration of all. So we immediately set to work assembling the beautiful artificial tree that was stored in Grandfather's closet. Although artificial, it was the most geniuine-looking Douglas fir I had ever seen. Tucked away in the closet with the tree was a spectacular array of ornaments, many of which had been my father's when he was a little boy. As we unwrapped each one, Grandmother had a story to go along with it. My mother strung the tree with bright white lights and a red button garland; my sisters and I carefully placed the ornaments on the tree; and finally, Father was given the honor of lighting the tree.
We stepped back to admire our handiwork. To us, it looked magnificent, as beautiful as the tree in Rockefeller Center. But something was missing.
"Where's your star?" I asked.
The star was my grandmother's favorite part of the tree.
"Why, it must be here somewhere," she said, starting to sort through the boxes again. "Your grandfather always packed everything so carefully when he took the tree down."
As we emptied box after box and found no star, my grandmother's eyes filled with tears. This was no ordinary ornament, but an elaborate golden star covered with colored jewels and blue lights that blinked on and off. Moreover, Grandfather had given it to Grandmother some fifty years ago, on their first Christmas together. Now, on her first Chirstmas without him, the star was gone too.
"Don't worry, Grandmother." I reassured her. "We'll find it for you."
My sistems and I formed a search party.
"Let's start in the closed where the ornaments were," Donna said. "Maybe the box just fell down."
That sounded logical, so we climbed on a chair and began to search that tall closet of Grandfather's. We found Father's old yearbooks and photographs of relatives, Christmas cards from years gone by, and party dresses and jewelry boxes, but no star.
We searched under beds and over shelves, inside and outside, until we had exhausted every possibility. We could see Grandmother was disappointed, although she tried not to show it.
"We could buy a new star," Kristi offered.
"I'll make you one from construction paper." Karen chimed in."
"No," Grandmother said. "This year, we won't have a star."
By now it was dark outside, and time for bed, as Santa would soon be here. We lay in bed, snowflakes falling quietly outside.
The next morning, my sisters and I woke up early, as was our habit on Christmas day -- first, to see what Santa had left under the tree, and second, to look for the Christmas star in the sky. After a traditional breakfast of apple pancakes, the family sat down together to open presents. Santa had brought me the Eask-Bake Oven I wanted, and Donna a Chatty-Cathy doll. Karen was thrilled to get the doll buggy she had asked for, and Kristi to get the china tea set. Father was in charge of passing out the presents, so that everyone would have something to open at the same time.
"The last gift is to Grandmother from Grandfather," he said, in a puzzled voice.
"From who?" There was surprise in my grandmother's voice.
"I found that gift in Grandfather's closet when we got the tree down," Mother explained. "It was already wrapped so I put it under the tree. I thought it was one of yours."
"Hurry and open in," Karen urged excitedly.
My grandmother shakily opened the box. Her face lit up with joy when she unfolded the tissue paper and pulled out a glorious golden star. There was a note attached.
Her voice trembled as she read it aloud:
Don't be angry with me, dear. I broke your star while putting away the decorations, and I couldn't bear to tell you. Thought it was time for a new one. I hope it brings you as much joy as the first one. Merry Christmas.
Love,
Bryant
So Grandmother's tree had a star after all, a star that expressed my grandparents' everlasting love for one another. It brought by grandfather home for Christmas in each of our hearts and made it our best Christmas ever.
-Susan Adair
**************
"One Day You'll Look Back on This . . ."
I've learned to take time for myself and to treat myself with a great deal of love and respect 'cause I like me. . . . I think I'm kind of cool.- Whoopi Goldberg
"I can't go to school like this!" I wailed as I stared into my mirror, hating my face, my body and life in general. A river of salty tears traced a path down my cheeks. Summoned from the kitchen by my shrieking, my mother appeared at my side a second later.
"What's the problem?" she asked patiently.
"Everything . . . just everything!" I complained and continued to stare horrified into the mirror.
At almost thirteen, the problems that I felt I had were overwhelming. I had a hideous new crop of angry, red pimples that had erupted on my forehead and chin overnight—every night. My hair suddenly looked greasy all the time, even though I washed it every second day. My aching tummy signaled that my newfound "friend" was about to visit once again, causing my jeans to fit too snugly and make me appear as though I had been eating nothing but hot fudge sundaes. And to top it off, my chewed-up fingernails were torn and bloody, since biting them seemed to go along with the way I worried about how other people perceived me. But everything that was bothering me wasn't just on the surface—I also had a broken heart.
The guy I had been going out with had recently dumped me in favor of an older, more developed girl. Everything combined, I was a physical and emotional wreck.
"Come on, now, Honey. Try not to cry," my mother said with a smile. "I remember what it was like to be your age. It was awkward and frustrating, and I got my heart stomped on, too, but I came through it—and so will you! It's not as bad as you think, and once you get to school with all your friends, you'll forget all about your pimples and what's-his-name, and one day you'll look back on this and wonder why you were ever so upset."
Convinced that she didn't know what she was talking about, I gave her a dirty look and headed off for school, greeting my girlfriends on the sidewalk while my mother waved encouragingly from the front door. Later, as much as I hated to admit it, I found out that my mother was right. As I spent time with my friends who were going through the same things that I was, my mind wasn't on my troubles anymore, and soon I was laughing.
When I returned home later that day, I was in a much better mood and because I had put my best foot forward, my mother rewarded me with a bag of goodies she had purchased from the drugstore. On my bed was a bag that included shampoo and conditioner, some acne medication, a gift certificate to a hair salon and, surprisingly, some hot, new shades of nail polish.
"What on earth is this?" I asked bewildered, thinking that my mother had to be out of her mind if she thought I was going to flaunt my gnarled nails.
As it turned out, she had a plan. I thought that it was cruel at the time, yet it turned out to be highly effective. I wasn't allowed to have any of the stuff in the bag, nor was I allowed to keep my ever-so-important stick of concealer. The deal was that for each week that I didn't bite my fingernails, one item of my choice would be returned to me. Desperate to retrieve my makeup and to get my hands on everything in the drugstore bag, I concentrated heavily on my schoolwork, instead of biting my nails and worrying about what people thought of me. Over the next few weeks, I was thrilled to watch my nails grow. By the time I earned the certificate to have my hair cut and restyled, my nails were so long that my mother also treated me to a manicure while we were at the salon. And as time wore on, I began to see that I was getting through the rough spot, just as she had promised I would. I liked that I received so many compliments on my hands and hair, but more than that, I was proud of myself for sticking with the deal and improving myself in the process—so proud, as a matter of fact, that I failed to notice my acne slowly clearing up. And I couldn't have cared less about what's-his-name. He quickly became a distant memory as I began to date many different boys, some of whom broke my heart and others whose hearts I broke.
Though it certainly wasn't my last acne outbreak, bad hair day or crushed spirit, I did learn something. I will hold with me forever my mother's words of wisdom: "One day you'll look back on this and wonder why you were ever so upset."
Years later, after several ups and downs in my life, I look back and realize that I did come through it all and I am the better for it. I only hope that if one day I have a daughter who is experiencing the struggles of adolescence, I will be as understanding, helpful and creative as my mother was with me.
-Laurie Lonsdale
******************
<< Home