What Mothers Teach

What Mothers Teach From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Like Mother, Like Daughter

BY: From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Like Mother, Like Daughter

Many years ago, when my daughter Sara was in the fifth grade, she came to me with a life-gripping problem. As tears welled up in her big brown eyes, she began explaining her dilemma.

“Marcy hates me!” she cried. “She hates me because Kathy is my friend, too. She wants me to be her friend and nobody else’s.” Sara choked back her tears and said, “She won’t play with me if I hang out with Kathy. But, they are both my friends!”


I tried my mommy-best to console her and let her know that we cannot control how others feel and react. Even though we should understand feelings, there are some things that are out of our control, and some decisions we can only make for ourselves.

As I was trying to decide what motherly advice I could give her, she stumped me with, “You talk to Marcy. You tell her that I like her and want to be her friend, but I can have other friends, too!”

Oh boy. I sat there staring at her for a few moments trying to figure out how I got into this mess, when suddenly the idea came to me. I excused myself and left the room, telling her I would be right back. My mind raced. It was obvious that she needed to learn that there are just some things you need to do for yourself. Only, how could I teach her this without her feeling like I had failed her?

Picking up two wicker baskets from the living room, I quickly tossed their contents onto the floor and walked back into Sara’s room. She stared at me like I was nuts.

“What are those for?” she asked with big, surprised eyes.

“It’s a life lesson for you,” I explained. “Just sit down and let me explain.”

She sat on the edge of the bed with a wary eye. Placing the smaller basket inside the big one, I placed the handle of the big basket over my arm and began to slowly walk around the room as I explained.

“When everyone is born, God gives them a little basket. This little one here is yours. The big one is mine. As you grow, so does the basket. But if you notice, your little basket is inside mine. Why do you think that is?”

She just glared at me. Nope. Not getting through yet. Not even close.

I continued. “Your little basket is in mine because when you were born, there were too many things you couldn’t do for yourself. I had the responsibility of feeding you, changing you, bathing you, and doing everything else you couldn’t do on your own. So I put your basket in mine and carried them both for a while.”

She nodded, but so far still thought I was crazy.

“Well, as you grew older and began to do some things on your own, I began placing a few more things in your basket. When you learned to tie your shoes, that went in your basket. You wouldn’t want me tying your shoes now, would you?”

She bowed her head a second and said softly, “No, that would be stupid. I can tie my own shoes.”

“Right,” I said. “And when you learned how to put on your own clothes, I put that in your basket. You don’t even like me telling you what to wear now, never mind dressing you.”

She agreed with a small nod.

“As you grow older, there will be more and more things you must do on your own.” As I spoke, I gradually took her basket out of mine and handed it to her. “You will eventually carry your own basket with things only you can do, like deciding who you want to be friends with, who you will date, what college you will go to, who you will marry.”

She looked up at me and said, “I understand. There are some things that I have to do for myself because they are in my basket.”

Hallelujah! The light came on! “Yes,” I squealed, “but it’s even better than that because you decide the things that belong in your basket or someone else’s. Like now, you decide who you want to be friends with. If Marcy doesn’t like your decision and gets angry, whose basket needs to carry her anger?”

She smiled. “Marcy’s. Right?”

I hugged her and continued with the story. “You’re absolutely right. Marcy’s responses aren’t in your basket. They are in hers. Now, one last thing you need to understand before the basket story is over.” She was smiling big now and really getting into my little skit.

I stood there for a moment, thinking of my own mother and grandmother who were living with us, reminiscing about the things they used to do for me that now I do for them. Even though it tugged at my heartstrings, I held up the big basket and said, “One day when I’m much older, there will be things I can no longer carry in my basket. When that time comes, eventually you will begin taking things out of my basket and placing them into your own. Just like I do now for Grandma and Momma. Eventually, the things that are in my basket will be taken out, for I won’t always be strong enough to carry everything I’m carrying right now.”

I reached over and gently took the small basket from her hands and traded with her. As she felt the large handle of the big basket and watched me take the little one, she understood.

Softly, I said, “Life is a circle.”

As she smiled and gave me a big hug, she said, “Mom, I think I can put much more in my basket. Don’t worry about Marcy. I can do this.”

As I put the magazines and the potpourri back into the baskets in the living room, my own mother entered and asked me what I was doing. Smiling, I gave her a quick overview of my impromptu skit, feeling quite smug and proud of myself. Mom just smiled.

A few days later, I was surprised to see one of the tiniest baskets I’ve ever seen, sitting on the top of my computer desk. It was small enough to hide in the palm of my hand.

Underneath it was a note, in my mother’s handwriting that said simply, “Just remember, your basket isn’t nearly as big as you think it is. Love, Mom.”

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