Humor for a Mom's Heart: Stories, Quips, and Quotes to Lift the Heart

Humor for a Mom's Heart: Stories, Quips, and Quotes to Lift the Heart

by Various


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Being a mom is a roller-coaster ride of exhilarating joys and pull-out-your-hair frustrations. Sometimes a sweet infusion of humor is just what you need to lift your heart to new heights, to heal the hurts of a bad day, or to instill your soul with inspiration.

Samplings from some of your favorite authors -- including Patsy Clairmont, Martha Bolton, Dave Meurer, Nancy Kennedy, and many more -- will energize any worn-out mom and remind you of the joys of motherhood.

Take a deep breath, inhale the joy, soak up the merriment, and you'll surely find that your heart is lighter, your day brighter, and your soul hilariously refreshed.

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781416533573
Publisher: Howard Books
Publication date: 09/01/2002
Series: Humor for the Heart Ser.
Pages: 255
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.25(h) x 0.80(d)

Read an Excerpt

Humor for a Mom's Heart

Stories, Quips, and Quotes to Lift the Heart
By Various

Howard Books

Copyright © 2002 Various
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9781416533573

I Am Mommy, Hear Me Roar1

Nancy Kennedy

    A long time ago, I gave up using the name on my birth

certificate and just started referring to myself as Mommy. As in:


“Come give Mommy a kiss.”


“Tell Mommy where it hurts.”


“I told you Mommy's ears can't hear whining.”


“Mommy's face looks like this because Mommy just found out that somebody used

her lace tablecloth to wipe off fingernail polish.”


I knew I wasn't alone on that either. I know for a fact that none of my friends

have names. We greet each other in the market:


“Hi, Sarah's mom!”


“Hi, Laura's mom!”


The vet even calls me “Blackie's mom.”


I may not have a real name, but you know who I am. There's a container of Gak

dumped in a corner of my living room carpet and the moldy remains of a peach

deemed too gross to eat stuffed in the cushions of my couch. I walk around the

house with dryer lint and used Q-tips in the pocket of my robe. I spend the

majority of my day behind the wheel of acar-traveling hundreds of miles to and

from softball practice, cheerleading practice, and trips to the market-yet never

leave the city limits. I can't do a quadratic equation, but I can tell you how

to get to Sesame Street.


My prayers are often frantic and generally specific. (“Lord, please help my

child throw up in the bucket and not on the wall.”) At times I pray to be made

invisible, like during PTA meetings when they need someone to chair the fifth

grade fundraising car wash or during the Christmas program when it's my child up

on stage singing, “Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me,” as she

proceeds to slug the boy standing next to her.


I know you know me. I wash my children's faces with spit and my thumb. Pick at

the dirt behind their ears. Whine about their whining. Nag about their nagging.

Worry that I'll never live to see the day they'll change their underwear without

coercion or threats of bodily harm.


I have eyes in the back of my head and a nose that can sniff out doggy doo-doo

on a sneakered foot fifty yards away. I have ears that can hear Oreo cookies

being eaten underneath the covers by a child who is supposedly asleep. With just

one sideways glance, I can tell who sharpened her crayon with my eyeliner pencil

sharpener and who accidentally-on-purpose let the bathroom sink overflow.


A few years ago, you would have recognized me as the one with strained chicken

and peas plastered in my hair and a faraway look in my eyes, as I dreamed of a

life that was not planned around nap time and late night feedings. I was the one

who, when asked by a poll-taker to name my favorite male television performer,

answered without hesitation, “Ernie from Sesame Street.”


Once upon a time I had a stomach that didn't fall to the floor. Once, I had hips

that didn't serve as a baby saddle and a shelf for grocery bags. Once, I could

even take a bath. Alone. All by myself. Without someone pounding on the closed

door, asking if she could use the blue food coloring or “just wondering” if

Super Glue ruins dining room tables.


If you looked in my closet you'd find baggy sweats with elastic waists; big,

long sweaters; and pull-on pants. Forget Bill Blass and Anne Klein, give me

Hanes Her Way any day.


You know who I am. I eat standing up. “Breakfast” consists of the soggy cereal

left in bowls on the kitchen table, the ends of bread left in the bag, and blobs

of strawberry jam scraped from the counter. I grab lunch on the run from a

drive-through window and nibble on dinner as I cook it. I finish everyone else's

ice cream, then wonder why I can't ever seem to lose weight.


Don't tell anyone, but I live for bedtime. I yearn for the sounds of a child's

slumber. I long for my own head to hit the pillow. I pine for (yawn)…zzzzz.


You know me. I'm the one with the knot in her stomach, praying her child will

figure out how to turn over on the playground turnover bar so she won't be

humiliated in front of her classmates during gym class. I'm the one who drinks

the powdered milk so the rest of the family can have the “real” stuff. I'm the

one who eagerly counted the days until both daughters went to school, then cried

when that day finally arrived.


I'm the one who willingly suffered through morning sickness, swollen ankles,

uncontrollable crying jags, and overwhelming desires for lemon meringue pie and

out-of-season blackberries. (Not to mention pushing a bowling ball through a

part of my body a bowling ball doesn't normally fit-twice.)


I'm the one frightened voices call for in the middle of the night. I'm the one

who changes wet sheets at three in the morning, rocks a nightmare-stricken

preschooler back to sleep at four, then gets up at five to let the dog out.


I'm the one who, despite an utterly selfish nature and a propensity toward evil

(in addition to an inadequacy in and of myself and a definite lack of

experience), God chose as caretaker, teacher, and nurturer for two totally

dependent little sinners.

With apologies to the Peace Corps, I have the toughest job anyone will ever

love. I am battle-weary from refereeing squabbles over who did or did not do the

dishes last and battle-scarred from getting smacked in the thigh by a

line-driven softball during backyard batting practice. Still, I endure.


Who am I? I am a cooker of oatmeal and cleaner of soap scum. A taxi driver,

spider killer, purchaser of folders with pockets and prongs, pencil finder, and

dental appointment maker. Loudest cheerleader and most fervent pray-er,

encourager of dreams and holder of hands. I am a tear wiper and boo-boo kisser,

the toothbrushing gestapo and an example of faith. You know who I am.


I am a mother.


1.  "I Am Mommy, Hear Me Roar" taken from Mom on the Run by Nancy

Kennedy. Copyright (c) 1996. Used by permission.


Excerpted from Humor for a Mom's Heart by Various Copyright © 2002 by Various. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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