I didn't know your foot was broken when I said, just walk it off.

And I didn't know you had pneumonia.

When I said it's just a cough.

I know I'm not great.

I've made some mistakes that I am not proud of.

I just hope and pray I was good enough.

Remember the time my friends made a tray of Jell-O shots, and somehow you ended up bringing them to an overnight with the scouts?

As a toddler?

Good afternoon.

I am so honored and humbled to be here with you to celebrate motherhood.

All of it.

The good, the bad, the ugly, the scary, the heart wrenching and the beautiful.

You know, just like so many mothers I know, I felt the same way.

It's Jen.

You think you know everything about how to be a mom before you become a mom, right?

You're an expert.

She was an expert.

Well, now that she has two sons, Jack and Will, she has discovered that perhaps she's not ready to write a 15 volume book on it yet.

Here is Jen Maddock with Holy.

I'm Jen Maddock.

I'm a teacher turned stay at home mom trying to get back out there in between wiping butts.

So my story is called Holy.

it's about being a mom later in life.

And so I had a chance then to kind of have all these judgments about parenting because I watched all my friends become parents.

And so I had all these, I will never I will never do this.

I will never do that type things.

And in that process then I was slowly humbled to all the things that like, I will actually do those things too.

So it's just a ton of moments.

It was a moment where my son actually picked up a choice phrase, and then I was kind of like, okay, that's our phrase for just this phase of life and parenting in general.

I became a mom in my late 30s, much later than all of my friends.

My doctors called both of my pregnancies geriatric.

At one of my first O.B.

exams, I noticed the paperwork the nurse was holding, said AMA, and I foolishly corrected her.

Excuse me, miss, but my initials are actually jsm I know that's just to alert the doctor that stands for Advanced Maternal Age.

What this really meant is I had plenty of time to judge all of my friends parenting.

I rolled my eyes at their toddlers who only eat goldfish and and had to be entertained by screens in public, and I definitely scoffed at their children sleeping in their beds until what seemed like college.

I remember thinking, when I have kids, it will be different.

When it was finally my turn to be responsible for two little humans, I was determined to watch their sugar intake make them homemade food, and limit their screen time.

When I finally allowed television, I was very strict about their choice of shows.

I mistakenly thought Disney would be a safe option with all the classics and princesses.

I thought anything on our Disney Plus station was sure to be a safe bet.

A show about tornadoes would definitely pique my three year old interest, so I left my son and husband to watch storm chasers do their thing.

Feeling confident that my son was getting background knowledge on what a storm really looks like, I didn't know that this would result in my son's first adult word, along with what would become my parenting mantra.

Holy.

The words beautifully flew out of his mouth like a song.

The same kid who says it's bented for bent had mastered his first curse curse word instantaneously, and he used it perfectly in a sentence over and over again.

My husband gave me a sideways glance, bordering on pride at our son's correct usage, but also blaming me.

Since I had selected the show.

Apparently they bleeped out all the other curse words, but they didn't think that that phrase was bad enough.

So the Storm Chaser said it over and over again while he drove into the eye of the storm, and my son committed it to his memory.

An ever expanding vocabulary.

And I'm pretty sure that I have been repeating the same holy for the past five years.

Having two boys 18 months apart is a wild ride.

There's nothing quite like going to the bathroom with two little shadows, especially shadows of the opposite sex.

They both eagerly followed me to the toilet, hovering around my ankles.

Mama, where's your wiener?

My youngest gasped in horror as he pointed to my exposed lady parts.

I didn't get a chance to answer before my oldest corrected his brother.

She doesn't have a wiener.

She's a girl.

She has a. I'm sorry mama.

My youngest looked at me with sad eyes as he hugged my leg to lessen the supposed disappointment.

I should have over my inferior, wiener less anatomy.

And then he added, one day you can grow a wiener.

Holy.

After five years, I now know the milk has to be cold, but not too cold.

And the straws?

They have to be clean, but they cannot have a remnant of water on them.

The oldest gets the clear straw, or sometimes the blue straw, but you can never, ever give him the gray straw.

The straw has to match the color of the beverage that he's drinking.

The youngest, he has to have the blue plate and the blue bowl and only the small blue fork.

And chances are you can't find the fork because it's on the floor from when he threw it in disgust at the previous meal.

So you quickly locate it, wipe off any trace of breakfast or lunch, and set it down before he notices.

The oldest now likes fruit, so he wants strawberry pancakes, but the youngest doesn't like fruit unless it's hidden in a smoothie.

So you have to make a separate batch of pancakes for him, or smush chocolate chips into his when he's not looking, and hold your breath while you set down the plate, hoping he doesn't notice the red from the strawberries.

Holy.

It turns out my kids will sleep in my bed to well, currently, one sleeps in a tent right before he climbs into my bed.

So I'm picking my battles, doing the best I can each day, and never judging another person's parenting because holy, this gig is hard to all of you.

Mothering with or without.

You've got this.

Turn on some Disney, hand them some goldfish and take a nap while you can.

During the day because chances are you won't be sleeping tonight.

Thank you.

My name is Katie Rodriguez Banister.

I grew up in Saint Louis.

I love living in the Lou.

I get my degree in recreation and worked in parks and recreation jobs and found a job of my dreams when I was 25 years old and as a social director for an apartment community.

And four days later, I was a passenger in an SUV that rolled over.

I was in the hospital for six months, live with my folks for 15 months, and I've been living independently since 1992, took a wheelchair to find the man I love.

I met my husband doing advocacy work at the Capitol, so bad things happen, but good things can still come from it.

My program is on my mother's words of wisdom that allowed me to survive, rehab and become the successful woman that I am today.

I wouldn't be able to be here without my mother by my side.

Shes faithful.

She was strong and her words come out of my mouth all the time.

And I lost her in 2008.

But I know she is still present in many, many ways.

I don't remember the accident.

I don't remember my friend's SUV rolling over.

All I remember is I was in the passenger seat and I woke up in a field of grass with a paramedic hovering over me.

And isn't it great that I don't remember?

Because who wants to remember the bad stuff?

I was told the first time my mom saw me in the hospital, she dropped to her knees and wailed.

She lost it.

But then she got herself together and was by my side, cleaning and scraping the dry masses from my tongue, feeding me ice chips because I couldn't eat, helping me make the best of it.

She was stuck to my side from day one.

I was 25 when my life changed by this tragedy, and I thought I'd never get back to any of the before.

Katie until mom came in one day and said, guess what I've got for you?

Lipstick.

And that was a game changer.

Mom always said A little lipstick makes everything better.

And as she was applying it, a therapist came and asked, would you like to do this for yourself?

Well, she got a brace that allowed me to put on my own lipstick and then a wand to put on my own mascara and voila!

The before Katie was in the house, the sassy Katie, the made up Katie, the leopard print and independent Katie.

I spent two months at Barnes Hospital and four months in rehab at Mercy when I was hospitalized.

I wasn't always the charming and bubbly person you see here today.

Sometimes I was a.

And one time I even called one of the nurses a.

And mom gave me a hard time reminding me.

Katie, it's nice to be important, but it's important to be nice.

While in rehab, I had my first home visit, a holiday, lots of family and chaos.

My mom and sister had been taught how to empty my bladder by inserting a catheter into my urethra.

Well, when it came time to cast me, my brother put me on the bed, mom position my legs and she tried.

My sister tried.

Neither of them could get the tube inserted back to the hospital.

I went, now ladies, you know this and hopefully you men know this.

Women have a lot going on down there.

There's lots of different stuff in all the same region.

Mom was mortified at the moment, but we laughed our asses off on the way home after learning they'd been trying to insert the catheter in my clitoris.

I had a degree in recreation and I had a disability.

I had to do okay.

I moved back in with my younger brother, my roommate I had before the accident.

My family helped fund my independence, and I started knocking on doors looking for organizations to help me.

Mom was apprehensive, me living on my own, but she didn't try and stop me.

She did try to advise me.

Now, Katie, don't put all your eggs in one basket.

Pace yourself and consider all your choices and your decisions.

Living on my own meant I needed to interview caregivers.

I was confused on who to hire.

Mom said Katie That's why there's chocolate and vanilla.

We pick and choose what we like.

Mom made me realize that not all my caregivers had to be exactly alike, but they had to be people I liked.

The mall was just up the street from the house, so every once in a while, mom would stop by with a new blouse or a new pair of shorts.

She'd bustle through my door saying, I've got something new for you, Chicky.

Mom raised seven kids.

She knew what she knew, what we needed, and she knew what I needed to keep my spirits up.

Mom also taught me to be the trailblazer I've become.

I've made educational videos about people with disabilities.

And yes, we do have sex.

I do poetry shows on how it feels to be on wheels.

Mom always said you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

And I remember that when I go, when people gawk or ask questions, I need to react with kindness and try to educate them a little.

In our short interactions.

In 2008, mom passed from ovarian cancer and I was by her side when she was at her lowest.

Just was like she was at my side when I was in the depths of despair.

We listened to opera music together.

We watched Wheel of Fortune.

The last thing I said to her was, Ma, you want to go?

Go Sometimes we need permission.

All the awards I've won and all that I've accomplished, mom's a part of it.

She taught me that no matter what cards I've been dealt, I should make the most of it.

Because life is good and I've still got lot to do.

Thank you.

Here is Stacey Haberstroh with her tale about the not so obvious.

Hi, my name is Stacey Haberstroh and I am a single mom by choice.

I am also a Medicare insurance broker, so I am a single mom by choice.

And when I chose the route of motherhood, I knew that what I was getting into, I knew I would be Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.

So my story is about things that I didn't know, things that were not so obvious, things that I never saw coming.

So that's the adventures of being a single mom.

I'm a mom.

I'm a single mom.

I'm a single mom by choice.

15 years ago, I decided to listen to my heart and to become a single mom by choice.

I have a donor baby.

What this means is that I bought the missing ingredient from the California Cryobank, went to the infertility doctor and knocked myself up.

It's true.

I can't make this stuff up.

I knew being a single mom by choice meant it was all on me.

Every weekend, every doctor's appointment, every diaper.

I would be the Easter Bunny, the tooth fairy, the elf on the shelf.

I knew what I was signing up for, I was ready.

These were the obvious things.

What I didn't see coming was the not so obvious things that I'm going to share with you today.

First, when my daughter was learning to spell, her first word was mom.

She wrote I heart m o m on everything.

It was so precious.

Since she had an uncle named Bob.

I also taught her how to write Bob.

Bob so close to mom.

Same vowels, three letters and B's are fun to make.

So she began to write.

I heart mom and Bob on everything even cuter.

At our first parent teacher conference, I was excited to hear how my daughter was thriving in her fancy Montessori daycare.

My beautiful daughter was obsessed with books, arts and crafts, and spelling.

At only two years old, I was such a proud mom.

I sat down in the tiny preschool chair, ready to hear about my daughter's cognitive development.

The very first question the teacher asked was, so who is Bob?

Is that your child's father or a new live-in boyfriend?

I wasn't even dating.

why, why do you ask?

The teacher held up a piece of artwork, and on the top was clearly written.

I heart mom and Bob.

not so obvious.

Every year when our kids go back to school, us single moms by choice prepare ourselves for the dreaded family tree project.

Moms, dads, brothers, sisters.

The traditional 1960.

Leave it to Beaver Cleaver family.

The teacher asked me to clarify our family tree.

I proudly explained that our family was just my daughter and I, just the two of us.

And then she said, oh, I completely understand.

My sisters a lesbian too Not so obvious.

So now Bob is my live-in boyfriend and I am a lesbian.

As a dynamic mother and daughter duo, we experienced life together.

For example, when we go shopping, my little assistant always helps me find my size.

She's.

Because of this, she is probably a little more aware of what I'm buying than other children.

When we started kindergarten, I was excited to be her Girl Scout troop leader.

I mean, of course, why would I not?

I was a single mom.

I could do anything.

At one of our monthly troop meetings, I told the girls to start cleaning up a bit early, and one of the moms asked me, what's the rush?

Do you have a hot date or something?

Excitingly, I explained, yes, I was going out to listen to a band that night when my daughter loudly announces, my mom, bought new black underwear for the band.

Not so obvious am a gift of being a single mom by choice with an open donor is that you're able to connect with other women that use the same donor.

Technically, our children are related.

They are half brothers and sisters.

Since we all chose the same donor.

One of the moms in our group coined the term diblings, meaning donor siblings.

Looking from my child's perspective, I thought meeting her diblings would give her a sense of connection.

So I planned a family reunion.

It was one of the coolest experiences meeting your half brothers and sisters who looked just like you, finding your biological family.

We still have yearly reunions and the diblings have a text chain.

The funny thing about this journey is the not so obvious.

I may have chosen to be a single mom by choice, but my daughter must navigate this choice that I made.

She is handled her role as a donor baby with grace and dignity.

She celebrates me on Mother's Day and Father's Day.

She is kind and smart and she often reminds me that I am her favorite parent.

She's not just a donor baby, she is the reason.

The reason I'm a mom, a single mom, and a single mom.

By choice.

Like Bob.

Lesbians, new underwear.

When I tell people how I chose to become a single mom, I cannot tell you how many times women have looked me straight in the eye and said, you are the bravest woman I have ever met.

So some moms are great cooks, right?

Some moms are fantastic interior decorators.

And then there's some moms who are superheroes.

Lindsay's mom is a superhero.

And Lindsey Mahler, well, she's going to prove it with her tale entitled superheroes Aren't Always Cartoons.

Hi, my name is Lindsey Mahler.

I'm 35 years old and I'm from Weldon Springs, Missouri.

I've got an older sister named Rachel.

She's four years older than me.

She's got two boys and one girl.

The oldest boy is six and the other boy and girl are twins that are three years old.

Writing is my passion and being able to help people is also a big passion of mine.

I've been wanting to do this show for a long time, and finally got up the courage to sign up and write something I have dinner with someone.

Anyone would probably be my meemaw.

She passed away in 2004 from non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.

I think it's called growing up.

She was very special.

She was my grandma, obviously, and growing up we went to arts and crafts together.

She would make her own crafts.

She had an actual kiln in her basement, and we would get to make stuff out of clay.

She made dollhouses that we play with together, and we had such a special relationship back then.

She actually passed away on my 16th birthday.

I am 99.9% sure that when you look up the word hero in the Webster's Dictionary, you will see a picture of my mom, Susan Mahler alongside her photo, and most proudly defines a hero as someone who never gives up and never gives in, no matter how tired they are.

I was born with multiple systems disabilities.

Because of this, my mom didn't even get a chance to hold me before a team of doctors and nurses rushed me to an ambulance transporting me from Saint Luke's to Children's Hospital.

And what did my mom do?

Hero would do.

While she was still recovering from a long, difficult delivery, she checked herself out of the hospital against all of doctor's orders so that she could be with me.

And that was just day one of my long, crazy, and complicated life.

After the doctors finished running test, they told my parents that I most likely never be able to walk or talk.

Boy, did we prove them wrong.

My mom was so positive and works tirelessly to ensure that I did walk.

And I did talk.

And now they can't shut me up.

Hey mom, be careful what you ask for.

For sanity's sake, in three decades I had so many earned visits, hospital stays, surgeries, and even a kidney transplant.

Which my special donor is in here somewhere.

We stopped counting at 150.

My mom and dad never left my side.

She and my dad never worked where she and my dad not only worked very stressful full time jobs, but when they became when it came to being my number one fighting advocate, you couldn't ask for a kinder, smarter and more beautiful hero than my mom.

I am the first one to admit, though.

I always try to be a good and easy patient no matter what is going on or how much pain I'm in, I can't begin to tell you how many birthdays, anniversaries, Thanksgivings, family vacations, and even Christmases.

And this year, New Year's Eve, they had to be canceled because I ended up in the hospital.

And you know what, although I know she was disappointed.

Who wouldn't be?

She never ever complained In fact, there were times where she brought the holiday to me when I was in the hospital.

My mom is my very best friend.

No matter how bad it gets or how sick I am, we always end up laughing hysterically at an episode of friends, or when I beat the pants off of her playing cards, or we play Carpool Karaoke on the way to and from hospital or doctor appointments.

Growing up, I was obsessed with the TV show E.R., which often shocks most people since I do spend most of my life in the hospital.

I loved nurse Carol.

I wanted to be nurse Carol when I was six years old.

Six years old.

My papa would call himself Doctor Doug Ross.

You know, George Clooney.

George was almost as handsome as my papa, almost.

Well, when Doctor Ross finally proposed a nurse, Carol, my mom pulled out all the stops.

My sister and her best friend were my bridesmaids and my mom did my hair, found a beautiful white dress and matching flowers, and my meemaw played Here Comes the Bride on the organ.

When I walked down the aisle.

And of course, we celebrated with gifts, food and fake champagne.

You know, I was only six.

It was a day and a memory I'll cherish and remember for the rest of my life.

She never lets me stop believing in myself, making me realize that I really am a miracle and always reminds me to keep the faith and hold on to it, no matter how bad it gets.

My mom is the truest definition of unconditional love.

She really is my hero.

In fact, she's a superhero and she has passed on her super powers to me.

And you know what?

I guess the good old Webster Dictionary was right.

Please welcome Nathan Maul's hilarious story about how he and his mother truly connected.

Called gummies with mummy.

My name is Nathan Maul.

I'm originally from Alton, Illinois, where this shirt.

Just to prove it, I'm a high school English teacher, improviser, storyteller, father, husband, son.

Obviously just a guy from Saint Louis.

I guess I'm going to be talking about how I overcame some childhood insecurities about talking and being completely honest and open with my mom through a specific kind of happy accident that allowed her and I to connect on a more meaningful level.

And from there, we always had a good relationship, and now I feel a little bit closer to it.

Starting when I was a kid, I was always afraid of my mom.

Don't get the wrong idea.

It's not because she was scary or abusive.

It's actually the opposite.

I was afraid to hurt her feelings.

See, my mom is a small, supremely polite Midwestern woman who loves sweaters and casseroles and excuses for little treats.

As a child, she used to hug me the way a bird of prey goes at a rabbit.

You know, she sees from a distance, and then she pursues.

To this day, her voice still goes up several octaves when she sees one of my childhood best friends.

Oh, hi there.

Meanwhile, neighbor neighborhood dogs barking in the background.

People used to say to me, you know, you really do have the sweetest mom.

Listen, I know, okay?

My mom still checks up on me when I'm at her house.

And if I take more than five minutes in the bathroom.

Nate, you okay in there?

Yes, mom.

I'm 33.

Yeah.

This, of course, has always been really embarrassing, but also kind of sweet in a way, but definitely shameful.

And I know shame.

I grew up Lutheran.

Over the course of a couple.

Oh, I don't know, a few decades of being nice and not talking about that.

I just kind of built up and eventually manifested in the physical symptoms.

According to the doctor and the therapist, that I paid to gang up on me.

And the most intolerable of these was chronic back pain.

And I've seen the kind of damage that prolonged use of painkillers can take on a person's body.

So I was afraid to take Tylenol every day, but I did need relief.

So I started looking for some alternative ways to heal.

Something that could help with both pain and anxiety.

You guys ever heard of weed gummies?

Well, let me tell you, they are great.

But even though they're legal now, there's this weird stigma for some people, as evidenced by the fact that I still feel kind of weird talking about this on TV.

And I wanted to keep it a secret from my mom.

I didn't want my sweet sweater Midwestern mother to feel ashamed or worried, even though I'm a fully grown man, according to the same doctor and therapists that I pay to gang up on me.

And you know what?

Things start to get better.

I was feeling great and my secret was safe with me.

Flash forward a couple of years.

My mom hurts her shoulder.

She now too has chronic pain and it started to greatly affect her daily life.

And I could tell that it was really weighing on her.

She still smiled that sweet smile, but it's just a little less, you know?

And for her that meant a lot.

It got to the point where she barely slept at night.

You know who was sleeping really well at night, though?

Me?

And I came to realize something.

I realized that I love my mom more than I'm afraid of her.

And the pain of in her shoulder was worse than the pain of thinking that her son was a degenerate.

So I did what any well-meaning and loving son would do.

I offered my mom some weed.

And to my surprise, she actually said yes.

That sweet little lady who loves casseroles and falls asleep during movies.

Yeah, the gummies worked.

They worked.

And slowly we began to talk.

And I mean, like, really talk.

And for the first time, I finally felt liberated to tell her about all of my crushing anxiety.

I tell her about being in therapy.

I said that I felt embarrassed to talk about it.

And you know what?

It turns out my mother isn't just sweet.

She is actually also a fully grown adult capable of handling her son's feelings.

Nate, I'm sorry you felt that way as a kid, she said.

I had no idea that you were going through all of that.

I'm.

I'm really sorry.

And to be totally honest, I had no idea how much I actually really needed to hear that.

The next day, I texted my mom, and for a bit there was no response.

So just like she had done to me in the bathroom so many times before, I checked up on her.

Mom, mom, are you doing okay?

I texted her.

Finally.

She responded, yeah son, she said, I, I had a really nice time with you.

And there we were.

Not just a mother and son, but two fully grown adults who were open books, who truly understood each other.

I spoke earlier about Catholics and Lutherans.

That night on the phone was like a holy sacrament, even though we are Protestants.

I entered the booth and I had my Holy Confession and I finally felt absolved.

Except on this night, the presiding father was actually my mother, and all it took was a little communion wafer of sorts.

A good Ole weed, gummy.

Thank you guys.

I'm Melissa Fuoss, I am mother to Alex and Andy, a wife to Joel.

I've been a teacher for over 21 years.

and I just published my first book, so I guess I'm a writer and I'm doing a story, and mama said.

Mama said I'm going to be telling a story about my oldest son who was misdiagnosed with a sarcoma when he was 12.

And my husband and I during that time, really saw behind the curtain and saw what parents have to go through who have children who are facing a cancer diagnosis.

In September of 2020, five different specialists at Children's Hospital told my husband, Joel and I that our 12 year old son had cancer.

They walked us down the hall and sat us down in the room with all the tissues and talked to us about port placement and Catscans and asked us if we had family in town, and then they placed the word sarcoma of the leg in his chart.

Moments after they told us Alex had cancer.

They also told us that he would base his reaction on our response, so we needed to keep it together.

We needed to stay strong.

We wiped our eyes and took deep breaths and walked back into the room to find our tall 12 year old sleepily looking at the TV.

I got in bed with him and ran my fingers through his hair and tried to keep my voice light as I asked him about the questions and the show he was watching, Joel lay down on the makeshift bed, rolled on his side and stared out the window.

A sadness laid on us like a suffocating tar, making the smallest movements feel impossible.

Alex was six when I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

He would kiss my bald head and wonder why I was always asleep on the couch.

How could it be possible that this word had slipped back into sentences whispered between us again?

Cancer was not a mystery to us.

It was not a foggy stranger.

As a mother, I wanted to beg the universe to take the cancer from his body and put it back in mine.

I couldn't sleep.

After the doctors diagnosed Alex with a sarcoma, I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, picturing life without him in my mind.

I saw the neighborhood boys biking by.

I pictured the empty chair at the dinner table.

I thought about the silence, about the lack of laughter.

I imagine the way his younger brother Andys heart would ache for his brother's company.

I wondered if our home would ever hold happiness again.

I thought about all the times I snapped at him for chewing ice or burping, or leaving snack trash in his pockets.

I thought about how I'd never forgive myself for not cherishing all those little annoyances.

I thought about the Alex sized hole I would forever have in my heart, and I cried until there are no tears left.

The next night, I walked up the steps and heard a crying that was not my own.

I found Joel in Alex's room, holding Alex while he slept.

Tears streamed down Joel's face as he kissed Alex's head and watched him sleep.

And every atom of me broke open.

But then a week later, we met with a surgeon who was studying the images of Alex's leg.

With a puzzled look on his face, he said it didn't look like cancer to him.

He said he would need to perform a surgery and cut open Alex's leg.

They would take a sample during the procedure and study it under a microscope.

It was the first time we could take a breath.

We allowed a tiny spoke of hope to ease its way in.

Alex solved his Rubik's Cube as the nurses prepared him for surgery.

Joel and I tried to make jokes with him, but it felt like we couldn't breathe.

How do you pass the time as you wait for doctors to call you from the O.R.?

Our legs were bouncing, tears streamed on our faces, and every second felt impossible.

And then the phone rang.

The pathologists only saw infection.

There was no sign of cancer.

The nurses later told us that everyone in the O.R.

erupted in cheers when they heard the good news.

I told Joel it was the happiest day of my life.

We kissed and cried, and we held each other and waited for Alex to move into recovery.

Our boy was going to live.

Our boy was going to be okay.

But while I was holding Alex's hand waiting for him to open his eyes, I heard the cries of another mother down the hall.

I know for sure she was getting the opposite news.

Her baby was not going to be okay.

Alex only needed one night to recover in the hospital.

One night and even one night felt like too much.

Joel was getting coffee the next morning in the waiting room, and a mom who waited behind him said it was day 80 of drinking that terrible waiting room.

Coffee.

Day 80.

I feel so weak thinking about those warriors, those parents who get the other news.

The moms who drink hospital coffee for days on end, the ones who lay awake looking out windows and watching families like ours walk away.

We saw behind the curtain, I want to watch my boys grow up.

I want to hear Andy's piano music swirling through the living room while I watch out the window as Alex bikes off with his friends.

I want to hear the basketball dribbling in the backyard and hear their feet on the steps in the morning when they wake up with bedhead and sleep in their eyes, I want to hold them after heartbreaks and cheer for them after wins.

I want to love them enough to let go of them, to watch them drive off into this world with enough bravery to be open to all that life has to offer, both the pain and the joy.

And I know no one can promise me that that will happen.

We are all one phone call away from our worlds, turning upside down.

My cancer could come back.

I could be the mom getting the other news.

But cancer reminded me that life is short.

It reminds us that nothing is guaranteed.

It forces us back into the truth that we're all going to die.

This is a hard reality to hold, especially when it comes to our children.

At the bottom.

It is always love that lifts us back up.

Love and hope.

Hope is like water.

It always finds a way it can cut through rocks and carve out enough space in our despair to allow us to breathe.

There's a big part of me that just wants to hold on tighter.

Now that we've seen behind the curtain, to worry more, to make more rules, and to try to control the world.

So my boys don't have to suffer.

But my therapist reminds me that we often don't have control, no matter what we do or how much we gameplan or ruminate or worry, sometimes we cannot control what life will bring us next, but we always have choice.

We can always choose how we respond.

We can always decide how, how we will rise up and when.

There is a quote that I read recently that has stuck with me, and I think that it captures the essence of life and the hard parts of motherhood.

These things can break us or they can break us open.

The choice is ours.

Thank you.

Maureen Ragsdale is here with her story.

My brother, the mother.

Hi.

My name is Maureen Ragsdale.

I am a widow, a mother, a grandmother, and I work in finance and this is my second foray into Mama Said.

Mama said, very excited to be here.

If I could have dinner with anyone alive or dead, I would pick my father that passed before I knew him.

And I have very little memory of him and the things I want to ask him, or what was his life like?

What were his parents life?

How did they end up in Saint Louis, Missouri, from Northern Ireland?

Those are hard hitting questions in my mind right now.

And he never talked about his past.

He never talked about anything to my siblings, so they can't even tell me.

So it just be a fascinating night of just me prodding and poking and dragging everything out of him that I want to know.

Mama said.

Mama said.

But did she not?

My mother.

Four weeks before my ninth birthday, my father died suddenly of a massive heart attack in the 60s.

There was not a lot of counseling or grief support available, and I did not feel like I could talk to my mom about my dad or his passing because she was so grief stricken.

My two much older sisters were married and out of the house, but my brother Terry, who is ten years older than me, was still living at home.

Fortunately for me, he tried to make life interesting and fun.

At least that is what I tell myself now.

My mom on the floral shop.

That was a hobby before my dad passed, but became a full time occupation for her.

The floral shop was around the corner from our home during a busy holiday season.

She would spend a lot of time working late.

My brother Terry was charged with being my sitter.

He used these bonding moments to tell me the story of my past.

He would tell me the tale that I was adopted.

In our parents, he had so many years to decide if they were going to keep me.

And they had decided before dad passed away that they were going to return me.

He said that he was assigned the task of telling me the truth and preparing me for my return to my birthplace, Baltimore.

He said my name was Gertrude Snodgrass.

The stories had a lot of details I would always come back with.

That is not true.

Especially that made up name.

When my mom would come home, I would tell her what he was saying.

She would say in a very exasperated way, Terry, please.

My brother would come back with you.

See, she is not denying it.

She just does not want me to tell you.

Once when fighting him about this, he said, where do you think you are born?

And I replied firmly, Saint John's Hospital.

He said, why don't you call the hospital and ask for your records?

I had no idea what he was talking about, but he dialed the phone, put me on it, and he got on the extension.

I do not know how the conversation went, but somehow I was transferred to the records department.

I was asked for my date of birth, which I gave.

The woman then said, I am sorry we do not have your records here.

That is all I remember before hysteria set in.

Had I been older and understood and stayed on the line, I would have found that she would explain that the hospital I was born in was in the city, and the new hospital was in the county.

All records from the original hospital were now held with the Vital Records Bureau in the city of Saint Louis.

But my ten year old brain, which is what I was at this time, thought my brother had been telling the truth the whole time.

Again, I went to my mother and again she told Terry to stop another big holiday for the floral shop to spending quality time together.

We were watching a movie during a commercial break.

He said to me, you know, your mother was from Baltimore and she was an actress.

When she gave birth to you, she could not keep you, but she did name you Gertrude and her name was Carrie.

I had no idea what he was talking about.

And this night he made sure we watched the credits roll.

He just could not wait until the actress Carrie Snodgrass was listed in the cast.

He jumped up and pointed to her name.

Scrolled up the television screen.

When I saw Snodgrass on the screen, panic fell over me because he was telling the truth.

He had not made up the name on this night.

He said I needed to pack my things and leave.

And here came my mother walking home from the flower shop.

Me, hysterical on the front porch, her embarrassed that I was throwing such a fit.

She dragged me back into the house with my luggage as I told her the story, my brother sat there incredibly happy because his grand story that he had been telling me for over a year had come to this crescendo.

Once again my mother said, Terry, stop it.

Years later, many years after Al Gore invented the internet, I thought back on those tranquil days of trying to prove I was a Quigley and decided to Google Carrie Snodgrass.

She led an interesting life and I realized I could actually be the lovechild of Carrie Snodgrass and Neil Young.

No tears being shed now, just testing my vocal stylings to see if I had inherited any of my father's talent.

And no, the grade school choir director was quite right not to select me for choir.

I have no such talent, so I am who I thought I was all along.

A Quigley, the youngest of four.

We are 94% Irish.

My fourth grade teacher knew our family well and asked me if I knew Irish dance.

I did not, but I lied and said I do.

She then asked if I would teach a few of the girls in my class an Irish jig to perform during an international celebration day.

I panicked when I went home and told Terry what I had done.

He immediately said, don't worry, I'll teach you.

My friends and I practiced Terry's routine until our moves were perfect.

I even taught them to put their finger on the top of their head and twirl in a circle, jump between two cross brooms with their hands on their waist.

After all of that work, we only had to perform the routine for a few minutes before I realized that my teacher had tears streaming down her face, trying to suppress her laughter at our highly unusual, frenetic dance routine.

She said, girls, we will skip this portion of International Day.

Even years later, I saw an I Love Lucy rerun and knew immediately where Terry came up with that ridiculous Irish dance choreography.

Some of these things seem mean in the retelling, but while it was happening, I was okay and that we were just spending time together.

I look back on those days and he truly was the mother and father that I needed to get through that time.

He helped me cope in a way.

While unconventional, the end result was effective.

Now jump ahead a few years and my brother Terry was living in Lexington, Kentucky with his wife and baby boy.

Life was good until one day when his then wife decided this was not the life she wanted.

I was living in Lexington at the time.

Now I was able to watch first hand my brother be the best mother and father to my nephew.

Thank goodness my brother bonded with his son just a little differently than he did with me through soccer and academics.

But I like to think he learned to be this wonderful mother father combo by first being mine.

My brother is as wonderful father and grandfather as He was a brother to me.

I have learned that it is not always what mama said, but sometimes the important thing is surviving.

What Terry said.

My name is Terry Baker.

I've been involved with the Mama Said show for quite a while.

I've been in the show.

I'm one of the co producers, directors right now.

I am telling the story this year.

This year, I'm have a little bit about my mother in the story, a little bit about me and a lot about a couple of my children.

When I was growing up, my family had silly made up names for certain body parts and bodily functions.

And as far as cursing, I mean, I never even heard the F-word spoken as a child.

And while I knew the stork didn't deliver the babies, I didn't have a better suggestion.

Mum was the word around our house, and it was so frustrating.

I vowed that when I had a family, I would be frank and factual.

Every single body part would be called by its correct name, and I'd answer delicate questions even if they were about procreation right on the spot.

Fast forward a decade or two and I became a mom, and the fun questions began.

It felt I had to honor my vow to be frank about the facts of life so much sooner than I ever expected.

My children seemed relaxed and were always talkative when I shuttled them around in Bertha, our blue full size van.

One morning on the way to school, a young voice called from the back of the van, hey, mom, someone wrote a word on the school fence over and over again.

What does mean?

I took a deep, calming breath, kept my eyes on the road, and explained the word to the best of my ability.

I also stressed that was not a word we used in our family.

When I asked if he understood, he said yeah, but.

So why would someone write that all over the fence?

Another memorable van worthy question concerned and topic of exactly how babies were made.

To my credit, my kids use the correct names for the male and female body parts, but they were pretty confused about what went where.

And did you and daddy really do that?

I then overheard them discussing the matter amongst themselves.

They eventually reasoned that it was probably okay.

They were giving my husband and me a pass, since we obviously did it twice because the other kids in the family were adopted.

Now, I hate to admit this, but I didn't correct them.

I just kept driving Bertha.

Now, by the time my fifth child neared the questioning age, I was a seasoned parent with a preschooler and four teens.

I thought I was over being alarmed by anything my kids said.

My son attended an on site daycare program where I worked.

Driving home at the end of the day was the one time he had my undivided attention.

One December afternoon, as we sat on the highway in bumper to bumper traffic, I asked if he knew any Christmas songs.

He indicated that he did and began singing his rendition of Jingle Bells.

His sweet three year old voice filled the van and his song went like this.

I was afraid the second verse was going to be the same as the first.

Shocked, I tilted the rearview mirror to look at him.

Did he know what he was singing?

Was that a smirk on his chubby little face?

The tune was spot on, but his lyrics needed some work.

He truly seemed to think that's how the song was sung.

Oh my.

Stop!

Who taught you that song?

I just knew this was the sneaky work of one of his big brothers.

Jackie taught me.

It's our secret song.

She's the new girl in class, and I love her.

And I'm going to marry her mommy.

Who knows, maybe my mom had it right after all.

Being frank and forthcoming about the facts of life isn't easy.

Motherhood in general isn't easy.

In fact, sometimes it's really.

Hard.

Thank you.

I didn't know your foot was broken when I said just walk it off.

And I didn't know you had pneumonia.

When I said it's just a cough.

I know I'm not great.

I've made some mistakes that I am not proud of.

I just hope and pray.

I was good enough.

I remember the time my friends made a tray of Jell-O shots.

And somehow you ended up bringing them to an overnight with the Scout's.

As a toddler, you found my lipstick.