“Don’t you know? There will never be a cure!” my teenage daughter screamed from the backseat of the car.

I steadied my hands on the steering wheel while Jenna continued to rant and rave. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. Not finding a single word that could or would change the situation, I remained quiet and tears stung my eyes. God, you’ve got to help the scientists find a cure soon. My daughter is losing all hope.

“It’s just too hard! I’m tired of feeling sick! I’m tired of being tired! I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired!” Jenna sobbed from behind. “Mom, I just don’t think I can do it anymore…” she said as her voiced faded off into silence.

Jenna’s words cut deep, for I knew that without hope, her heart would break. Wishing that this conversation wasn’t occurring on a freeway, I fought traffic and slowly made my way to the off-ramp, checking my rearview mirror only to see the penetrating look in Jenna’s eyes as she stared back at me. The unnerving silence was only interrupted by the sound of my turn signal.

It had been twelve years since Jenna truly “felt good.” And for twelve years she had lived courageously, fighting her chronic disease. I understood her feelings of defeat. I too was tired of daily watching my daughter tend to her catheter site, injecting herself with the proper medications, and experiencing the unpredictable side effects. I, too, wanted to join her in screaming, “I’m sick and tired of you being sick and tired!”

Watching her in such emotional and physical pain made me ache all over. If only I could take her illness upon me, I’d give her my health and bear her infirmity. But I felt helpless not knowing how to console her.

I pulled into the first parking lot I could find. I parked the car, stepped out and then crawled into the backseat where Jenna lay motionless. I brushed her hair from her eyes hoping she’d open them and look into mine. She didn’t move. For five minutes or more, I just sat and held her, praying that God would renew her strength and will to live.

What does a mother say to her child who is living a nightmare, praying that she’d someday soon wake up and it would be over? What words could bring comfort when all hope is lost?

Not knowing the answers, I spoke from my heart, hoping to reach Jenna’s. “Jenna, I need you to look at me. I need to know that you really understand what I am about to say.”

She turned her head towards me and opened her eyes. Immediately she began to repeat her words of hopelessness. Gently, I placed my finger against her lips.

“Honey, today you’re tired and you’ve lost all hope. Today, you can rest in my arms and let me hope for you. You can be assured that my hope is endless and so is my love…”

“Mom,” Jenna interrupted me, smiling slightly. “If you can hope for me, I guess I can too.” She draped her arms around me. “Tell me again, Mom, that your hope is forever.”

“It’s forever, baby. My hope is forever.”

“Mom, you’re always on the computer!” Laura grumbled.

“No, I’m not,” I defended.

“Every day I come home from school you’re working on the computer.”

“Well, at least I’m here for you!”

My daughter, Laura, at twelve years old, was right. Day after day, in my home office, I would stare into space as my hands typed out the thoughts of a presentation or of research completed for an article. It seemed that my work as a writer and speaker cemented my fingers to the keyboard and my mind to valuable ideas. What Laura did not realize was that during her day away, I’d also be doing a load of laundry, answering incoming phone calls, cleaning up dirty dishes, crunching an editor’s deadline, sorting the family mail, networking and marketing my speaking service. It was only around three in the afternoon that I’d finally collapse at my desk for a few precious moments of deep thought. Then she’d come in from school.

I prided myself on being available to my children. After all, I am a speaker on child behavior and parenting. But Laura’s observation stung my conscience. Her perception of me must have been of a mom who was available but unapproachable. Hardly the image I wanted to project. My relationship with my children is more important than any other career.

“Laura,” I called, “come here a minute.”

Out of her bedroom, Laura strolled down the hall to my doorway. I had decided to have her alert me when I was obsessed with work. I wanted her to have the power to let me know when she thought I was being aloof.

“So you think I’m preoccupied?” I asked.

“Most of the time,” came her honest reply.

After I explained my full schedule and the fact that I chose to office from home to be accessible to her and her sister, I offered Laura this compromise.

“Whenever you feel I’m ignoring you or you need my attention, I want you to hug me,” I said. “Just come up and give me a little hug, and that’ll be our signal that you need me.”

Years later we still have that unspoken sign. I’ve become much more sensitive to my daughters’ comings and goings. And on the days I’m not, Laura gives me a little squeeze to remind me of the real reason I work from home.

Night after night, she came to tuck me in, even long after my childhood years. Following her longstanding custom, she’d lean down and push my long hair out of the way, then kiss my forehead.
I don’t remember when it first started annoying me - her hands pushing my hair that way. But it did annoy me, for they felt work-worn and rough against my young skin. Finally, one night, I lashed out at her: “Don’t do that anymore - your hands are too rough!” She didn’t say anything in reply. But never again did my mother close out my day with that familiar expression of her love. Lying awake long afterward, my words haunted me. But pride stifled my conscience, and I didn’t tell her I was sorry.
Time after time, with the passing years, my thoughts returned to that night. By then I missed my mother’s hands, missed her goodnight kiss upon my forehead. Sometimes the incident seemed very close, sometimes far away. But always it lurked, hauntingly, in the back of my mind.
Well, the years have passed, and I’m not a little girl anymore. Mom is in her mid-seventies, and those hands I once thought to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family. She’s been our doctor, reaching into a medicine cabinet for the remedy to calm a young girl’s stomach or soothe a boy’s scraped knee. She cooks the best fried chicken in the world… gets stains out of blue jeans like I never could… and still insists on dishing out ice cream at any hour of the day or night.
Through the years, my mother’s hands have put in countless hours of toil, and most of hers were before perma-pressed fabrics and automatic washers!
Now, my own children are grown and gone. Mom no longer has Dad, and on special occasions, I find myself drawn next door to spend the night with her. So it was that late one Thanksgiving Eve, as I drifted into sleep in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar hand hesitantly stole across my face to brush the hair from my forehead. Then a kiss, ever so gently, touched my brow.
In my memory, for the thousandth time, I recalled the night my surly young voice complained: “Don’t do that anymore - your hands are too rough!” I reacted involuntarily. Catching Mom’s hand in mine, I blurted out how sorry I was for that night. I thought she’d remember, as I did. But Mom didn’t know what I was talking about. She had forgotten - and forgiven - long ago.
That night, I fell asleep with a new appreciation for my gentle mother and her caring hands. And the guilt I had carried around for so long was nowhere to be found.

By Christina Coruth

A CD player headset drowned out the background noise as I worked in the living room at my computer. My fingers rushed over the keys as fast as my mediocre typing skills would allow, and my unblinking eyes stared at the monitor. Working in the living room of a small house that is home to three adults and two young children has forced me to develop a new level in my ability to concentrate. I was busy, very busy with my work. I had achieved that state of concentration that allowed me to block out just about anything, a tornado vacuuming up the room around me, if need be.
Then it happened. A tiny rift opened in my concentration as my eye caught a glimpse of an object flying upward through the air. I pulled my mind back to my work. I didn’t even look to see what the object was, or what became of it as I sealed the rift. No sooner had I resumed my work, than laughter opened another rift in my concentration. Now I was getting annoyed. My seven-year-old grandson, Zach, was sitting across the room on the couch. His smile faded as I gave him my most stern, “Hush, I’m working” look.
Although I couldn’t hear him, I could see that he said, “Sorry, Nana.”
Success - another rift sealed and concentration restored. Sometimes children don’t understand that there is a time for play and a time for work. This time is work time and I must get back to it. Clickedy, clickedy over the keys my fingers raced.
Another object whizzed past my peripheral vision, and the music wafting through my headset was no match for Zach’s hearty laughter. Now I was really annoyed. Zach was too busy to see my sternest “Hush, I’m working” look. I followed his gaze to the ceiling as he launched another object, a hair scrunchy. With a quick slingshot motion, the hair scrunchy was airborne - whiz, bump, stuck to the popcorn ceiling. Some people like popcorn ceilings. To me, they look as if someone forgot to smooth out the Spackle. I never had any use for a bump-filled ceiling. Zach, on the other hand, had found a use for the ceiling, which now was adorned with a half a dozen hair scrunchies.
Red, purple and green circles clung to the ceiling, some flat up against it and some hanging down.
I lightened up my stern look a bit. “That’s very funny but you have to stop now. Scrunchies don’t belong on the ceiling.”
“But why not? It’s fun! I won’t break anything.”
I was about to tell him to go get the broom so that I could remove the scrunchies, when his words sunk into my head and reminded me of a time when I would have said, “why not?”also. When had I gotten so serious and so busy that I couldn’t revel in the joy of a moment? What happened to the woman who would send her young children’s friends into fits of giggles upon meeting them for the first time by asking them what they did for work and if they were married and had any children? What happened to the woman who laughed herself silly when her children and husband got into a snowball fight in the kitchen with cookie dough? When did I become so rigid? When did I forget, “Why not?”
Why not indeed! I looked at Zach and couldn’t help but smile.
“Can you show me how to do that?”
His face lit up as he showed me how to launch a scrunchy. His laughter filled the air and his eyes sparkled. The ceiling never looked so colorful and happy with all those red, green, purple and yellow circles, some laying flat and some hanging down. I have to admit, Zach was better at it than I. Most of his attempts hit their mark. Most of mine ended up on the floor.
The following morning, I sat at the computer, ready to begin my work. I looked at the scrunchies still clinging to the ceiling and smiled. I certainly had enjoyed our time putting them up there. I decided I would take them down later. That is, until the ceiling lost its grip on one, and it fell, bounced off my shoulder, and onto the floor. Zach’s smiling face flashed in my mind’s eye. I smiled again. I felt like that woman of years ago who laughed at the cookie dough fight. I picked up the scrunchy and plopped it into my pocket.
When Zach came home from school that day, I was ready. He had given me a precious gift, now it was time to show him that I appreciated it.
“Zach, I’ve been waiting all day for you. Look what I found on the floor. It’s no wonder I can’t find these scrunchies when I need them. Please put this away.” I handed him the scrunchy and he headed toward the door.
“Zach,” I called out to him, “where are you going?”
He turned to me, “I’m going to put the scrunchy away, Nana.”
“Please put it where I can find it.” I shifted my gaze from his sweet little face to the ceiling. A broad smile spread across his face as he realized what I was asking him to do. Whizzzzzz, bump - up it went. It was perfect!
If you come to my house, beware of falling scrunchies. You may wonder why I keep my scrunchies on the ceiling. Zach knows the answer to that question, and now, so do I - “Why not?”

God, please do not let me miss those moments that I could have spent with my child. Let me carry him more often and feel his tiny body gently wrapped in my loving arms. For someday I will not have the strength to pick him up anymore.

Let me hold him close to smell his freshly washed hair and breathe in that wonderful baby scent that covers his delicate skin, for surely he will not smell this deliciously sweet for very long.

Let me enjoy changing his diapers for this gives me the chance to play with his miniature toes, tickle his tummy and make him feel comfortable. Someday he will ask me to leave and shut the door behind me claiming he can manage by himself.

Let me take more walks with him in his stroller while I can look down at his little face that is staring in wonder at this new world all around him. Let me do this often, for soon he will be able to walk on his own and leave the safety of his carriage.

Let me stand beside his crib at night for longer than a moment to watch him surrender to his peaceful slumber. These nights spent in a crib will be replaced soon enough by a much less cozy place for dreams.

Let me make him laugh every day. For I am sure the precious sounds of his first giggles are apt to change with time.

Let me delight in each and every milestone he reaches. Before I know it walking, drinking from a cup and other small miracles he has learned will seem ordinary.

Let me tell him how much I love him. Since there are bound to be times when he will not want to sit still to hear this.

Let me continue to listen attentively to him even after he has mastered the art of talking. Since people tend to listen less closely to a child once language becomes fluent.

Let me make time for peek-a-boo and pat-a-cake and other baby games. There will come a day when he will no longer want to participate in such childish antics.

Let me learn to enjoy the sound of him calling me “Mommy” even if it is yelled through the dripping of tears. For one day I will no longer be “Mommy” to him, but rather just “Mom.”

Let me be the world to him right now because as every mother sadly comes to realize, their babies soon discover the world outside of their mother’s arms.

Let me do these things and so much more, despite being busy, tired or overwhelmed because I would hate to look back and harbor regrets of times gone by that were lost to less important things than my son.

Yes, dear Lord, I want my son to grow up to be a strong, loving and intelligent man, but please Lord do not let this happen overnight because someday memories will be all I have.