What Any Mother of a Preschooler Needs (Besides a Week at a Spa!)

Does your car CD collection range from The Best of Rock-n-Roll Classics to The Best of Barney? Does your idea of a good dinner out mean crayons and paper placemats for all? Can hearing the words, "I love you, Mommy" make your whole day? Then chances are good that you are not only a mother of a preschooler (or soon-to-be one), but that you are in need of some laughter, inspiration and camaraderie from other women who've been there.

Let's face it: Our little bundles of joy and boundless energy don't come with instructions, and every mom undoubtedly thinks at one time or another: "Am I doing this right?!" In this uplifting collection, you'll find true stories about the day-to-day minutiae and miracles of being the mom to a preschooler: from finding peace and purpose in what can seem (and look!) like chaos; from solving sibling rivalry to celebrating sibling revelry; from the sorrow of letting go to enjoying some personal independence as your "big kid" goes off to school. Included are stories from well-known MOPS speakers, Lisa Moffitt and Rochelle Nelson.

In just a few minutes of alone time these stories will give mothers of preschoolers a place to release the stresses of their day, connect with other moms who they can relate to and evoke much-needed laughter. Like only Chicken Soup can, these stories will rekindle your sense of self and spirit, and remind you how to enjoy this precious period of time in your life.

On Parade

Her children rise up and bless her.
-Proverbs 31:28

"Daddy’s home!"

Tiny figures stampede past, each clamoring to get the first hug, the first kiss, all squawking at once.

"I want a piggyback ride!"

"Look what I made for you!"

"Did you bring us anything?"

Daddy throws his arms wide and draws three squirming bodies off the floor. Squeals and giggles abound as he spins them around, returns them to the floor and starts chasing them in every direction.

No more quiet house. No more bathtime. No more Mama. It’s as if I’ve disappeared into the woodwork I’ve been trying to find time to clean.

He deserves this, I tell myself. He works extra hard so I can stay home with the kids. This is his reward after a long day at the office.

Who am I kidding? It hurts to see them shower affection on David, after I’ve been here, all day long, changing diapers, wiping noses and mopping spills. I’m the one who’s not allowed to have a complete thought, stay seated through a meal or enjoy an uninterrupted phone conversation.

I’m in charge of work, worry and discipline; he’s in charge of fun, frolic and fantasy. I’m the maid, the cook, the school marm—and the policeman; he’s the grand marshal of the nightly daddy parade.

Where’s my parade?

Of course, we made this decision together, putting my career on hold to be here for the kids. I never doubted it was the right choice for us, and I still don’t. At times, however, it’s hard to watch David shower, dress and disappear while I stay home, as steady and loyal as a lap dog. Just once, I’d like to walk in the door to shouts of

"Mommy’s home!"

I know I’m being silly. Think of the things he misses out on, things I wouldn’t trade for the most glamorous job on the planet. He wasn’t here for Molly’s first joke, when at a year old she reached into a basket of toys, pulled out a dumbbell-shaped rattle and held it across the bridge of her nose like Mommy’s glasses. He didn’t hear her belly laugh then or mine when Hewson at two strode through the back door naked except for a pair of muddy rubber boots— smiling ear-to-ear—to hand me a bouquet of ragweed. He’s not here when Molly hurts herself, and before I can reach her, Haley has rushed over to console her. Or when I offer Hewson a cookie, and he won’t accept it unless I give him one for each of his "sissies" as well.

I can hear the Daddy Fan Club in the bedroom, fighting over who gets to put his shoes in the closet and who may toss his shirt in the hamper. I don’t see anyone wrestling me for my dishrag. But as I clear the table for dinner, I catch glimpses of our day together—masks we constructed from paper plates, flowers plucked on our morning walk, a mountain of library books because we had to have just one more.

Would I trade all of that for a paycheck and a little office camaraderie?

As the daddy procession heads back my way, I have to admit the trade-offs are worth it. He may have lunch out with coworkers, but I get peanut-butter-and-jelly kisses. He might exchange clever repartee with clients, but I get to snuggle up and read Good Night, Moon "just one more time."

Let him have his parade. I’ll celebrate each day’s small joys.

After all, those are perks no benefits package can offer.

-Mimi Greenwood Knight