Ma and Her Checkbook (Humor)

Edgar Guest

Ma has a dandy little book that’s full of narrow slips,
An’ when she wants to pay a bill a page from it she rips;
She just writes in the dollars and the cents and signs her name
An’ that’s as good as money, though it doesn’t look the same.

When she wants another bonnet or some feathers for her neck,
She promptly goes an’ gets ‘em, an’ she writes another check.
I don’t just understand it, but I know she sputters when
Pa says to her at supper: “Well! You’re overdrawn again!”

Ma’s not a business woman, she is much too kind of heart
To squabble over pennies or to play a selfish part,
An’ when someone asks for money, she’s not one to stop an’ think
Of a little piece of paper an’ the cost of pen an’ ink.
She just tells him very sweetly if he’ll only wait a bit
An’ be seated in the parlor, she will write a check for it.

She can write one out for twenty just as easily as ten,
An’ forgets that Pa may grumble: “Well, you’re overdrawn again!”
Pa says it looks as though he’ll have to start in workin’ nights
To gather in the money for the checks that mother writes.
He says that every morning when he’s sum- moned to the phone,
He’s afraid the bank is calling to make mother’s shortage known.
He tells his friends if ever anything our fortune wrecks
They can trace it to the moment mother started writing checks.
He’s got so that he trembles when he sees her fountain pen
An’ he mutters: “Do be careful! You’ll be overdrawn again!”

Raising Boys

I scrub the wall of fingerprints,
Pick up the mounds of clothes.
I sweep the dirt that shoes track in-
Wish I could use a hose!
Meals are served from dawn to dark,
Dirty dishes crowd the sink.
Just when they’re washed and put away-
Everyone wants a drink!
The washer pulls the dirty grime
From pants worn thin and patched.
They look so very neat and clean-
Yuck, look what the pockets hatched!
Broken bones and bloody knees,
I should have been a nurse.
I take it all in shaky stride-
Just grateful it’s not worse!
Screams and shouts and arguments
Test the keeping of my cool.
They left the neighbor’s faucet on-
See their new front yard pool!
A soothing bath is ecstasy,
A reward at the end of my rope.
Raising boys isn’t really bad-
But first I must wash the soap!
A rose can say I Love You,
Orchids can enthrall;
But a weed bouquet in a chubby fist,
Oh my, that says it all!

Roberta I. Teague

Make a Wish, Mommy

by Susan Fahncke

Sometimes Life’s greatest lessons are the ones we would never be able to
learn without difficult circumstances leading us there.

It was my 28th birthday, and I was depressed. Divorced, raising two
children alone, and too poor to even afford a telephone, I was going
through the most dark and depressing time in my life. I hadn’t lived in
Utah very long, and was still trying to adjust to the snow, and this
particular January was one of the most brutal in years.

The snow outside was literally thigh-high, and it was a daily struggle
to leave the house, adding to my isolation. My son Nicholas was in
Kindergarten, and I was a Junior at nearby Weber State University. I
had taken the quarter off because my five month-old, Maya, had been very
ill, so I had little social interaction. It was a winter of loneliness
for me, but also of incredible closeness with my children. My small
son, with his enormous child-sized heart taught me the greatest lesson.

The day before my birthday, I was a grouch. I was used to celebrating
it with the friends I had moved away from. I was used to presents and
phone calls, none of which I would be receiving this time. Feeling
sorry for myself was becoming comfortable for me. Depression became so
second-nature that I didn’t even remember the happy, laughing person I
used to be. I was so wrapped up in my own problems that I couldn’t even
see that the greatest joys, blessings and sources of laughter that I
would ever know were right there in front of me.

Tucking the children into bed that night, I was in a cloud of
hopelessness. My little Nick, wrapping his chubby six-year old arms
around my neck and said “Tomorrow’s your birthday, Mommy! I can’t
wait!” His blue eyes sparkled with an anticipation that mystified me.

Kissing his sweet rosy cheeks, I hoped that he didn’t expect a birthday
party to magically appear, like it does on his birthday. Life is so
simple when you’re six.

The next morning, I awoke before the children, and began making
breakfast. Hearing noises in our tiny living room, I assumed Nick was
up, and waited for him to come in to eat. Then I could hear Nick talking
to Maya. He was sternly telling her to make Mommy smile today.

It suddenly hit me. Being so wrapped up in my misery, I didn’t see how
it affected my children. Even my little boy sensed I wasn’t happy, and
was doing his best to do something about it. Tears of shame at my
selfishness washed down my face. I knelt down in our little kitchen and
asked for the strength to somehow find happiness again. I asked God to
show me some beauty in my life. I asked Him to help me see, really see
the blessings I did have.

Putting a smile on my face, I marched myself into the living room to hug
my children. There sat Nick on the floor, Maya on her blanket next to
him, and in front of them was a pile of presents. A birthday party for
three.

I looked at the pile of presents. Then my eyes went disbelieving, back
to my son. His face was gleeful at my shock. “I surprised you, Mommy,
didn’t I? Happy Birthday!” He grinned his toothless, adorable grin.

Stunned, I knelt down next to him and with tears in my eyes, I asked him
how in the world he had possibly found a way to get me presents. He
reminded me of our trip to “All A Dollar”. I suddenly remembered him
telling me he was spending the allowance he had been saving for ages. I
had laughed at his bulging pockets and remembered thinking that he
walked like John Wayne, his pants loaded down with his life savings. I
had almost chided him for spending everything he had so carefully saved,
but thought better of it, and did my shopping while he did his.

Looking again at the beautiful pile of presents in front of me, I
couldn’t believe that my small, darling son had spent everything he had
in his crayon bank on ME. On his mom. What kind of kid goes without
the toys he wanted so that he could buy his MOM a pile of presents?
There. I heard the voice in my heart. I am showing you your blessings.
How could you ever doubt them? My prayers were being answered. No one
was more blessed, and no one had more to be thankful for than I did. I
had been so selfish and petty to feel unhappy with my life.

With tears flowing, I gently hugged my son and daughter and told them
how lucky I was. At Nick’s eager prompting, I carefully opened each
present. A bracelet. A necklace. Another bracelet. Nail polish.
Another bracelet. My favorite candy bars. Another bracelet. The
thoughtful gifts, each wrapped in gift bags and wrapping paper purchased
with a six-year old’s allowance were the most perfect I’ve ever
received. The final gift was his personal favorite. A wax birthday
cake with the words “I love you” painted in fake frosting across the
top.

“You have to have a birthday cake, Mom.” My oh-so wise little one =
informed me.

“It’s the most beautiful cake I’ve ever seen” I told him. And it was.
He then sang to me, “Happy Birthday” in his sweet little-boy voice that
melted my heart and brought on more tears. “Make a wish, Mommy” he
insisted.

I looked into my little boy’s shining blue eyes and couldn’t think of a
single thing I wished for. “I already got my wish.” I whispered
through the tears. “I have you.”

When a Mother Blows Out 75 Candles

She secretly hopes a tank of oxygen is one of her gifts.

Through the years she has hollered, said and prayed, “Jesus,
Mary and Joseph, grant me patience!” 1,245,187 times.

Her hands have hung diapers on pulley clotheslines, sterilized
bottles, carried babies from the third-floor apartment, ironed
sunsuits and proudly pushed baby buggies.

She has peeled more potatoes than six marines on K.P. duty.

Her hair has been set in steel curlers, permed, rinsed with
Nestle’s coloring capsules, and styled in pageboys, the poodle
look and the beehive hairdo; been permed again and turned
silver.

The “parlor” was where she entertained company, the “pantry”
held the groceries, the “icebox” held a pint of ice cream, and
the “wringer washing machine” was hers to use on Tuesday.

She has earned her nursing degree through measles, chicken pox,
mumps, pneumonia, polio, TB, fevers, stitches, flu, fractured
arms and broken hearts.

At one time or another her closet held housedresses, feathered
hats, white gloves, skirts with short hemlines and with long
hemlines, pants suits, billowy dresses of chiffon, sheath
dresses, a Sunday coat and the Christmas toys she ordered from
the Sears catalog.

Her heart has known the ecstasy of a man’s love, the joy of
children, the heartbreak of their mistakes, the warmth of life’s
friendships, the celebration of weddings, the magnificent
blessings of grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Who can count the floors she scrubbed, the dinners she cooked,
the birthday gifts she wrapped, the spelling words she listened
to, the bedtime stories she read, the excuses she heard, the
prayers she whispered to God each day?

Her arms have rocked generations of babies. Her hands have
prepared countless “favorite” dishes. Her knees have knelt in
prayer time and time again for those she loved. Her mouth has
kissed owwies that hurt. Her back has bent to bathe dirty
cowboys, pick up teens’ clothes, gather flowers from her garden
and grow old.

She has journeyed through life with its tears and laughter,
watching yesterday’s sunsets become tomorrow’s sunrises of hope
and promise. Because of her and the man who took her hand,
family life and love continue through the generations.

When a mother blows out 75 candles, blessed are they who
surround her with their love.

By Alice Collins

Mama Always Loved Carnations

It’s been 26 years since my Army buddy Dan and I
loaded his metallic blue 427 Corvette with ice coolers,
cutoffs and T-shirts, and drove past the somber-faced
military police at Fort McClellan’s main gate. Armed with
weekend passes and pockets full of crisp, new dollars from
our first week’s pay at our Army Reserve summer camp, we
were on our way to Florida – and the Army was the last
thing on our minds. Blessed by not finding our names on
the weekend duty roster, we had decided a weekend at the
beach would be just the thing we needed to recover from
four days of C-rations and mosquitoes in the hills of
eastern Alabama.

Our camp that year was early. The May weather had
been delightful, and with the top down and stereo up, we
cruised into Birmingham and decided to stop to phone our
mothers and wish them happy Mother’s Day before resuming
our journey south on I-65.

Reaching my mother at home, I learned she had just
returned from grocery shopping. I could tell by the tone
in her voice that she was disappointed I wouldn’t be
spending her special day with the family. “Have a nice
trip and be careful. We’ll miss you,” she said.
When I got back into the car, I could tell by Dan’s
face that he was suffering from the same guilty conscience
that was haunting me. Then we had the brainstorm. Send
flowers, of course.

Pulling into the parking lot of a southside Birmingham
florist, we each scribbled a note to go with the flowers
that would absolve us of the guilt of spending our only
free weekend on the beach rather than with dear old Mom.
We waited while the clerk assisted a little boy who
was selecting a floral arrangement, obviously for his
mother. Fidgeting by now, we were anxious to pay for our
flowers and be on our way.

The little boy beamed with pride as he turned to me
and held up his selection while the clerk rang up his
order. “I’m sure my mama would love these,” he said.
“These are carnations. Mama always loved carnations.”
“I’m going to put them with some flowers from our
yard,” he added, “before I take them to the cemetery.”
I looked up at the clerk, who was turning away and
reaching for a handkerchief. Then I looked at Dan. We
watched the little boy leave the store with his prized
bouquet and crawl into the back seat of his dad’s car.
“Have you fellas made a selection?” asked the clerk,
barely able to speak.

“I guess we have,” answered Dan. We dropped our notes
in the trash and walked to his car in silence.
“I’ll pick you up Sunday evening about five,” said
Dan, as he pulled up in front of my parents’ house.
“I’ll be ready,” I answered, as I wrestled my duffel
bag out of the back of the car.
Florida would have to wait.

By Niki Sepsas
from Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul
Copyright 1997 Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Jennifer
Read Hawthorne, and Ron Marci Shimoff

Perfect Little Angel, A

I had offered to watch my 3-year-old daughter, Ramanda, so that my wife could go out with a friend. I was getting some work done while Ramanda appeared to be having a good time in the other room. No problem, I figured. But then it got a little too quiet and I yelled out, “What are you doing, Ramanda?” No response. I repeated my question and heard her say, “Oh…nothing.” Nothing? What does “nothing” mean?

I got up from my desk and ran out into the living room, whereupon I saw her take off down the hall. I chased her up the stairs and watched her as her little behind made a hard left into the bedroom. I was gaining on her! She took off for the bathroom. Bad move. I had her cornered. I told her to turn around. She refused. I pulled out my big, mean, authoritative Daddy voice, “Young lady, I said turn around!”

Slowly, she turned toward me. In her hand was what was left of my wife’s new lipstick. And every square inch of her face was covered with bright red (except her lips of course)!

As she looked up at me with fearful eyes, lips trembling, I heard every voice that had been shouted to me as a child. “How could you…You should know better than that…How many times have you been told…What a bad thing to do…” It was just a matter of my picking out which old message I was going to use on her so that she would know what a bad girl she had been. But before I could let loose, I looked down at the sweatshirt my wife had put on her only an hour before. In big letters it said, “I’M A PERFECT LITTLE ANGEL!” I looked back up into her tearful eyes and instead of seeing a bad girl who didn’t listen, I saw a child of God…a perfect little angel full of worth, value and a wonderful spontaneity that I had come dangerously close to shaming out of her.

“Sweetheart, you look beautiful! Let’s take a picture so Mommy can see how special you look.” I took the picture and thanked God that I didn’t miss the opportunity to reaffirm what a perfect little angel He had given me.

– Nick Lazaris

Real Mothers

Real Mothers don’t eat quiche; they don’t have time to make it.

Real Mothers know that their kitchen utensils are probably in the sandbox.

Real Mothers often have sticky floors, filthy ovens and happy kids.

Real Mothers know that dried playdough doesn’t come out of shag carpet.

Real Mothers don’t want to know what the vacuum just sucked up.

Real Mothers sometimes ask “why me?” and get their answer when a little
voice says “because I love you best.”

Real Mothers know that a child’s growth is not measured by height or years
or grade. . .It is marked by the progression of Mama to Mommy to Mom…

Real mothers know that it is much more important to lay down on the
sidewalk with your child and look up at the tree canopy than it is to get
anywhere on time.

Real mothers know that bubbles and shaving cream make great rainy day bath
tub fun!

Real mothers know that there’s nothing wrong with cold cereal for
breakfast. Real mothers know that, more than likely, you’re going to show
up to work (or wherever you are going first thing in the morning) with some
of that breakfast cereal somewhere on your clothes.

Real mothers know that every time you pay attention to your child, you make
them feel important, whether they are 1 week old, 1 year old, or 10 years
old.

Real mothers know that after you have a child, who you are is changed
forever.

Children Answer Questions About Mothers

Answers given by elementary school age children to the following questions.

Why did God make mothers?
1. She’s the only one who knows where the scotch tape is.
2. Mostly to clean the house.
3. To help us out of there when we were getting born.

How did God make mothers?
1. He used dirt, just like for the rest of us.
2. Magic plus super powers and a lot of stirring.
3. God made my mom just the same like he made me. He just used bigger parts.

What ingredients are mothers made of?
1. God makes mothers out of clouds and angel hair and everything nice in the world and one dab of mean.
2. They had to get their start from men’s bones. Then they mostly use
string, I think.

Why did God give you your mother and not some other mom?
1. We’re related.
2. God knew she likes me a lot more than other people’s moms like me.

What kind of little girl was your mom?
1. My mom has always been my mom and none of that other stuff. 2. I don’t know because I wasn’t there, but my guess would be pretty bossy.
3. They say she used to be nice.

What did mom need to know about dad before she married him?
1. His last name.
2. She had to know his background. Like is he a crook? Does he get drunk on beer?
3. Does he make at least $800 a year? Did he say NO to drugs and YES to chores?

Why did your mom marry your dad?
1. My dad makes the best spaghetti in the world. And my mom eats a lot.
2. She got too old to do anything else with him.
3. My grandma says that mom didn’t have her thinking cap on.

Who’s the boss at your house?
1. Mom doesn’t want to be boss, but she has to because dad’s such a goof ball.
2. Mom. You can tell by room inspection. She sees the stuff under the bed.
3. I guess Mom is, but only because she has a lot more to do than dad.

What’s the difference between moms and dads?
1. Moms work at work & work at home, & dads just go to work at work.
2. Moms know how to talk to teachers without scaring them.
3. Dads are taller & stronger, but moms have all the real power ’cause
that’s who you got to ask if you want to sleep over at your friend’s.
4. Moms have magic, they make you feel better without medicine.

What does your mom do in her spare time?
1. Mothers don’t do spare time.
2. To hear her tell it, she pays bills all day long.

What would it take to make your mom perfect?
1. On the inside she’s already perfect. Outside, I think some kind of
plastic surgery.
2. Diet. You know, her hair. I’d diet, maybe blue.

If you could change one thing about your mom, what would it be?
1. She has this weird thing about me keeping my room clean. I’d get rid of that.
2. I’d make my mom smarter. Then she would know it was my sister who did it and not me.
3. I would like for her to get rid of those invisible eyes on the back of her head.

Remember When

By Bud Gardener

“You know, Mom, a person’s true character always comes out on the golf course. Since you never played golf, you really didn’t know Dad – Pat Gardner, the golfer – now did you?” This was one of the toughest things I’d ever said to my mother. It was a calculated risk I had to take.

My eighty-five-year-old mother glared at me, slowly shaking her head, her stern look signaling me to stop. She wanted no part of this. We – my mother Goldie, sisters Evelyn and Marge, brother Don, and my daughter Jill – were sitting in the Schmitt Funeral Home in WaKeeney, Kansas, putting the final touches on my Dad’s funeral, scheduled for the next day. Dad, who had suddenly died of a heart attack, was lying in an open casket about fifteen feet from us.

Because two other funerals were scheduled that weekend, the atmosphere was morbid to say the least. So I decided to lighten things up a bit.

I began telling a story about my dad’s crazy antics on our golf course. He had taken up golf late in his life and never quite got the hang of it, playing to a 30-something handicap. “One day, Mom, when we were teenagers,” I said, “Dad actually hit a drive in the fairway – it was the first one I’d ever seen. Huh, Don?” Don nodded, grinning, knowing what was coming.

“When we got to where his ball was supposed to be, we couldn’t find it, which got Dad all riled up.”

“Okay, where is it? I hit it right here!” he barked. Then he stopped dead in his tracks. He had spied his ball about two feet down a ten-inch-wide gopher hole, sitting on a dirt ledge. ‘Shut up, you two, and don’t move,’ he scolded.

“Heck, Mom, we weren’t talking or moving. Right, Don?”

“That’s right, Mom,” said Don, mischievousness dancing in his eyes. Mom narrowed her eyes, still glaring at me.

“Then, Dad got down on his knees and carefully reached for the ball with his 5-iron. Hope soared within him as he hooked the ball with the club face. Holding his breath, he gently lifted the ball upward, hand over hand, delicately holding the club by his thumbs and fingertips. Sweat beads appeared on his forehead. His hands were really shaking now, and he winced each time the ball nearly slipped off the club. It was painstaking work.

“‘Keep quiet, you two,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve just about got it.’ After what seemed like an eternity, he finally pinned the ball near the top of the hole and ever so tenderly reached down with his left hand to retrieve it. Just as his fingers approached the ball, two more balls fell out of his upper shirt pocket and slammed into the first ball, causing all three balls to disappear down the gopher hole, lost forever. Dad flew into a rage. He jumped up, kicked the hole a few times, then beat the hole half to death with his club. Don and I were dying laughing on the ground.”

As Mom gave me that dreaded old schoolmarm look that she had perfected in one-room schoolhouses out on the prairie where she had taught for forty years, the family exploded into laughter. My plan was working, the gloom lifting.

Dad had demonstrated a great sense of humor all his life and loved a good belly laugh. I was banking on Mom understanding this, and I was looking for some help from the rest of the family. Just then, Don chimed in.

“Remember the time, Bud, when we were sitting on the bench behind the raised tee box on the third hole, and Dad was getting ready to hit his driver? Now, Mom, I’m not trying to degrade Dad in any way. You know he was a great baseball player, who played a mean first base and hit cleanup for the WaKeeney town team and even played against the great Satchel Paige once. Remember?”

Mom, warming up a bit, nodded at Don.

“Well,” continued Don, “standing over his ball that day, he told us he really felt like clobbering a drive. Bud and I glanced at each other but kept quiet as Dad addressed the ball. Then he swung with all his might. He stared down the fairway, yelling at us. ‘Did you guys see it? Where in the devil did it go?’

“The truth is, Mom, he had swung so hard he overshot the ball and just nicked it with the heel of his club, causing it to trickle between his feet and slowly meander off the tee box and down the hill behind him. Don and I couldn’t hold back. We laughed so hard we fell off the bench into an anthill.

“Seeing our predicament, Dad bellowed, ‘Serves you right, you galoots! Now where’s my ball?’ When he saw it still trickling down the hill, he realized how silly this all was and cracked up, too.”

The whole family roared at that one, which brought a brief smile to Mom’s face. She quickly regained her serious composure, but we were on a roll and couldn’t stop now.

“Another time, Mom,” I recalled, “Dad, Don and I played in an out-of-town golf tournament. When Dad’s foursome was called to the first tee, Dad pulled the head cover off his wood driver and threw the club to the ground in disgust.

“‘What’s the matter, Pat?’ asked one of his playing partners.

“‘Would you look at that?’ snapped Dad. ‘See all those white marks on the top of my driver. Darn it, my kids have been using my clubs again.’

“His buddies all sympathized as he addressed the ball. Dad made a ferocious swing at the ball – which he had teed up way too high – and whipped the club head right under the ball, sending it straight up into the air. Then things got real serious as everybody scattered when the ball came crashing down in the middle of the tee box, leaving no doubt who had been putting the white marks on that driver.”

The twinkle in Mom’s eye told me I was doing the right thing. She had finally realized I was just trying my level best to help us cope with the loss of Dad. We then told a few more golf jokes about Dad, which seemed to lift the spirit of our family at this mournful time. A few minutes later, Don asked Jill and me to accompany him over to Dad’s casket. Dad was dressed in his best gray suit with a matching tie. “Bud, take a close look at Dad’s tie,” urged Don. I couldn’t believe it. It matched all right, but the words on it caught my eye. It had “Happy Anniversary,” scrawled repeatedly on a diagonal its entire length.

“And watch this,” said Don, as he reached for the tie. He pressed a small button on the back of the tie and out jumped a classic song. I couldn’t believe it.

“Who chose this tie?” I asked when the last note had faded away.

“Mom did,” said Don. “I gave Dad that tie as a joke years ago for one of their anniversaries. I guess Mom was too numb over Dad’s passing to know what she had done.”

Knowing my dad had a great sense of humor, I believe he would have gotten a big chuckle out of watching this scene unfold. Just then, I heard Mom laughing at something my sisters had said. It was music to my ears.

The next day during Dad’s funeral, I was extremely nervous. I had agreed to do Dad’s eulogy on behalf of the family. I had done only one other eulogy for a dear friend, which I had mishandled badly. I had lost control and cried throughout my entire presentation. So, I wasn’t sure I could pull this one off; after all, it was my Dad’s final hour. The family was counting on me. The funeral home was crowded with about seventy-five family members and friends. I was so shook up, I asked my daughter, Jill, to accompany me to the lectern – and to finish reading my prepared statement if I began to cry and lose control. She agreed.

Then it was time. The minister nodded, and Jill and I moved to the pulpit. I thanked everyone for being with us to honor Dad’s life and then began to read my statement. About a third of the way through, my voice cracked and tears began streaming down my face. I paused, then started reading again. I choked up again as tears spilled onto my papers. I was about ready to have Jill continue for me when she slipped something into my left hand. I felt an old familiar friend – a golf ball. At that instant, an overwhelming wave of relief washed over me, followed by a serene peace. Just then I understood the depth of Jill’s unconditional love for me. I was thankful she had made the long trip from California to Kansas to be with me. That ball – a symbol of joy and love – and Jill’s reassuring smile gave me the courage to finish one of my greatest challenges.

Child’s Prayer (are you)

Dear God, are You still awake?
Have You got a minute or two?

You’re pretty good at understanding,
And I really need to talk to You.

You see, Mommy came to tuck me in,
Like she does every night.
I was trying to play a trick on her,
Since she can’t see without the light.

I was going to close my eyes
And pretend to be asleep.
But when I heard her crying,
I didn’t dare let out a peep.

She started talking to you, God.
Did You hear the things she said?
Could You hear what she was saying
As she stood beside my bed?

Why would Mommy be so sad?
I wondered just what I had done,
And then I began to remember
it all As she named them one by one…

This morning we worked in the garden,
But, honest, I really didn’t know
That if I picked all those little yellow blooms
The tomatoes wouldn’t grow!

Charlie and I were trying to be helpers,
‘Cause I know that’s what Mommy needs,
But I don’t think she was too happy with us
when we pulled up carrots instead of weeds.

Mommy said we should stop for the day,
she decided we had helped quite enough.
I sure had worked up an appetite…
I didn’t know gardening was so tough!

We had peanut-butter and jelly for lunch
and I shared too much, I guess…
But I didn’t realize until I was done
that Charlie had made such a mess.

Mommy said she needed a nap,
she had one of her headaches today.
She told me to keep an eye on my sister
and find something quiet to play.

Well, God, do You remember all those curls
you gave my little sister Jenny?
We played barber shop…very quietly…
and now, well, she doesn’t have any.

Boy, was Mommy mad at me…
I had to go sit on my bed.
She said never to cut “people hair” again.
I guess I’ll practice on Charlie instead.

We sat and watched poor old Albert,
I just knew he must be so bored
Going round and round
in the same place all day,
Wouldn’t You think so, Lord?

I didn’t think it would hurt
to let him out for a while.
I mean, mice need exercise, too.
By the way, have You seen Albert lately?
He’s been sort of missing since two.

Mommy sent us outside for the rest of the day.
She said we needed fresh air.
But when Daddy came home she told him
he was trying to get something out of her hair.

We thought Mommy needed cheering up,
so we decided to brighten her day.
But, God, did You see the look on her face
When we gave her that pretty bouquet?

We had gotten a little bit dirty,
so Mommy said to get in the tub.
“Use soap this time,” she reminded,
“and please don’t forget to scrub.”

Charlie didn’t like the water too much,
but I lathered up real good.
I knew Mommy would be so proud of me
For cleaning up like I should.

I went downstairs to the table,
but during dinner it started to rain…
I’d forgotten to turn off the water, it seems,
and I hadn’t unplugged the drain!

I decided right then it was just about time
to start getting ready for bed,
When Mommy said, “It’s sure been a long day,
” And her face began turning all red.

I lay there listening to Mommy
as she told You about our day.
I thought about all of the things I had done
and I wondered what I should say.

I was just about to tell her
that I’d been awake all along,
And ask her to please forgive me
for all of those thing I’d done wrong.

When suddenly, I heard her whisper,
“God, forgive me for today…
For not being more understanding
when those problems came my way…

For not handling situations in the way
You wanted me to…for getting angry
and losing my temper,
Things I know You don’t want me to do.

And, God, please give me more patience,
Help me make it through another day,
I’ll do better tomorrow, I promise..
.In Jesus’ name I pray.”

Wiping her eyes, she kissed me
and knelt here beside my bed.
She stroked my hair for a little while…”
I love you, precious,” Mommy said.

She left the room without ever knowing
That I’d been awake all the time.
And God, could we make it our little secret?
You know, just Yours and mine?

I’m sorry I was so much trouble today,
I really didn’t mean to be…Daddy says
it’s tough being a kid sometimes,
but I think it’s harder on Mommy than me.

Well, goodnight, God. Thanks for listening.
It’s sure nice to know You’re there.
I feel so much better when I talk to You
’cause You always hear my prayer.

And I’ll do better tomorrow, I promise…
Just You wait and see!
I’ll try not to be so much trouble again,
But, God,
please give more patience to Mommy

……Just in case! Amen.

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