Mother’s Day Special 2023
| S:2 E:9We’re celebrating Mother’s Day with three beautiful stories read by their authors, from the joy of becoming a grandparent to ushering a beloved mother into their final years. We love you, moms!
A note: this episode contains mentions of suicide.
Get started with Storyworth here!
Check out photos and more details for this episode here!
Where to Listen
Find us in your favorite podcast app.
Krista Baum:
Hi, welcome to the Storyworth Podcast. We're glad you're here for our Special Mother's Day episode. I'm your host, Krista Baum, co-founder of Storyworth. On this podcast, we feature true stories written by Storyworth writers. If you are new to Storyworth, we help people write their life stories, the big stories, and the small ones.
Once a week we send our writers a question to help inspire their writing. They reply to the email with an answer or story that comes to mind. At the end of the year, we print what they've written into a beautiful keepsake book.
Every story written using Storyworth is private. But for this podcast, the writers volunteered to share their stories publicly with you.
So, today we'll feature a few of our favorite stories about mothers and motherhood. Our producer, Hannah, gave me a great early Mother's Day present. She did the interviews for this episode so I could visit my mom.
My sister and I took her on a little trip to the California coast. I live very far away from her right now, so it was especially nice to have several days together in a beautiful place.
My mom has Alzheimer's disease and there were a lot of moments where she was fully herself again, and it was the very best gift.
So, Hannah, thanks for doing the interviews. I love chatting with our writers. It's my favorite part of the job. I'd only miss it for mom.
Spending so much time with my mom has made me especially grateful for moms this Mother's Day, and we have three stories to share with you today, all read by their writers.
Our first one is written by Bob McDonnell, a look into his special relationship with his mother, and how she's still makes her presence known in his life to this day.
Bob McDonnell:
My name is Bob McDonnell. I live in Mount Prospect, Illinois, and the name of this story is The Open Window that April morning. When I write these stories for Storyworth, I always write them directing them to my kids and grandkids. So, when I read this, understand that the words are often directed towards my kids. So, having said that, here we go.
Shortly after leaving college, several of my friends decided to rent a house in the Lincoln Park area of Chicago, and they invited me to join them. At the time, I was just starting my career and was also going to night school for my MBA.
I had logical and understandable reasons for declining their offer, and so I did. But also, and this is kind of hard to explain, I really could have accepted their offer. The actual reason I chose to live at home was that I had a strong sense that I should be living there with my mom.
She had lost her husband two years previously, was starting out in her own career, and was also coping with a still unfinished business of raising seven kids.
She always seemed so tired to me, so worn out that a sixth sense kept burning inside my mind, telling me to live at home and help my mom. And so, I did.
These were great years for me, and I like to think for my mom too. We became more than just a mother and her son. We became great friends. We took turns making dinner for each other. We went to movies together, went out to dinner, and always watched Andy of Mayberry together on TV.
At times, I even served in the role of her escort to various work-related functions that she needed to attend.
Okay, let me answer the obvious question popping up in your minds. No, I didn't take my mother to any work-related functions that I needed to attend. Introducing her to my new boss would've sounded something like, “Hello, Mr. Smith. I'd like for you to meet my mother.”
Anyway, my mom and I had a blast together for several years. I really felt that I helped her at such a difficult time in her life by being there with her, by letting her speak from her heart about the emptiness she felt after losing my dad and about her surrounding the challenges she was now facing.
And I know she helped me negotiate my way through the same emptiness I was feeling. And she also served as a mentor to me as I was starting my career.
When I became engaged to your mom and was about to get married and move out of home, I asked my mom one day if this was going to be a tough adjustment for her. She responded only by saying, “I don't want to talk about it.”
You see, she was thrilled I was going to marry your mom. She loved your mom from the day she met her, she was only speaking about the prospect of my no longer being there every day with her and for her.
But her fears were unfounded as we stayed close throughout the rest of her life. Your mom and I took her to plays at the Marriott Theatre. We took her with us on trips to Florida and Arizona. We’d bring her to our house for lunches and dinners. We kept her close to us and close to our family during all of her years.
In her later years when dementia was slowly taking her mind away, I would call her every single day to check in to see how she was doing, to fill her in with our family news and so on. I'd always try to make her laugh, and I often succeeded in doing so. She knew and understood that her mind was slowly ebbing away, but she stayed cheerful and optimistic in spite of that challenge.
I'd also go see her every Saturday morning. And this went on for many years. We laughed together about that. We used to say that we had a standing date every Saturday, just like Barney Fife and Thelma Lou. She loved that.
Towards the very end, shortly before she passed away, she had become almost completely uncommunicative. I'd go there on Saturdays, sit next to her and just hold her hand. She wouldn't and couldn't respond and typically remained sound asleep during these visits.
It was sad for me that she was in this condition, and there were times that I shed a tear or two while sitting there just holding her hand. Makes me sad again today, just thinking about it.
Less than a week before she passed away, I stopped by for my regular Saturday visit. Our standing date, this was April of 2017, and after a long cold winter, the first signs of springs were beginning to appear. The temperature outside was still chilly, maybe in the 50s, but it was warmer that day than it had been in quite some time.
So, my mom's caregiver, her name was Margaret, had opened the window to let in some fresh air, and that fresh air felt wonderful, but it was more than that. Between the fresh air and the soft sunlight, I felt this was all a sign of heaven.
I can't explain today why it felt that way at the time. It just did. I took my usual place next to my mom, held her head, and started chatting softly with Margaret. My mom was asleep the entire time, not able to communicate with me.
I tried asking her a few questions, but she wasn't responding. This went on for an hour or so. Eventually I told Margaret that it was time for me to leave. I hugged my mom, gave her a kiss, and told her I loved her, not expecting any kind of response.
I then turned to go, but just then she suddenly woke up, smiled a big smile at me, and said very clearly, “RJ, are you leaving?” Margaret and I looked at each other and laughed along the lines of, how the heck did she just do that?
I smiled a big smile back at my mom and told her, no, I wasn't leaving. I'd always be right there for her and with her. I told her I loved her, and she told me the same. Those were the last words we'd ever speak to each other.
Two days later, she had a stroke, and two days after that, she was gone. Looking back, now, I wonder if that open window, the soft spring air, and the sunlight, that gentle Saturday morning was a harbinger of the peace my mom would soon find in heaven. In my mind, the welcome to heaven process had surely begun for her that day.
[Music Playing]
It's an emotional thing for me. And Hannah, I got to tell you, your email came on the anniversary of the day she passed away.
Hannah Leach:
Whoa.
Bob McDonnell:
I was going to church for my mom. Your email popped up when I was in the car on my way to church, and April 19th is the day that she passed away.
So, this is all weird and funky stuff for me. This is all-
Hannah Leach:
Oh, my God.
Bob McDonnell:
Yeah. Look at the look on your face. It's true. It's true.
Hannah Leach:
Wow.
Bob McDonnell:
I got teared up in the car. Yeah, yeah.
Hannah Leach:
Oh, my God. That's crazy.
Bob McDonnell:
I'm telling you, it's weird stuff happening.
Hannah Leach:
That's amazing. I cannot believe that. I'm still like-
Bob McDonnell:
I actually pulled the car over to the side of the road. This is really spooky stuff. So, that's why I pulled over. Because it was like I was getting a little emotional and all that, and I thought, “Okay, mom is sending me a signal.”
Hannah Leach:
Storyworth, how did you get started? How has it been for you?
Bob McDonnell:
It was my kids gave it to me as a birthday gift because I've been writing stories, stupid little stories to my kids forever. So, I just like to write. So, I've been writing these stories for them, and they thought, “Well, dad, this is perfect. You’re retired. This is something that you might have fun with.”
So, every Monday I would look forward to my Storyworth story, and that would be my Monday activity.
You guys ask a lot of questions that I wouldn't stop and think about asking myself. Not that it's relevant and not that my life is an important life, but it just brings up stuff that I like to share with the kids and have them know me a little bit better. And a lot of the stuff I wrote was about them and about Sue, my wife.
So, I talk you guys up to everybody. Through my daughter, we met her friends parents, nice people. We got talking to them a little bit, and well, I retired, but now I do some writing and all that. And I go, “Oh, you got to try this Storyworth thing.” He goes, “Well, I just finished my book, and my wife has to finish hers.”
My life is not all that terribly important, but it's kind of fun to give my kids the perspective that I have and to put that stuff in writing. And they might not all read it now, but someday I think they will. Someday when I'm long gone, I think they will.
Hannah Leach:
Yeah. Well, and also, I think what you're saying, you keep being like, my life isn't all that or no one's individual life is all that. That may be true to some extent, but you are such a main character in so many other people's lives that’s it’s — I feel like it's important to have a document like that for people.
Krista Baum:
Our next story is for the grandmothers out there. Specifically, those who never had a daughter. Written by Carol Robson, this one is dedicated to her first, and so far, only little granddaughter.
Carol Robson:
My name is Carol Robson. I'm from Lakewood, Washington, and my story is called, It's a Girl.
I was always a bit of a tomboy. I really didn't like dolls or makeup or pink dresses. I had a plastic bottle, a purple bubble bath with an artificial flower glued to it that sat on the corner of my desk unused and collecting dust for years. It wasn't my thing.
I never learned to cook or bake. I had no interest. I didn't take dance lessons. I did cartwheels and flips. I liked smashing little rocks into dust, playing in the dirt, rolling down grassy hills and riding my bike.
I loved swinging on the monkey bars and playing tag. I liked mucking in the mud at the beach, searching for wiggly creatures.
When I gave birth, I was relieved to have a boy, Lucas. And again, the second time Jeffrey. I knew how to raise a boy. It came naturally to me. I was at home and comfortable with activities they liked to do. They were easy to dress and not fussy.
Later when Jack came along, again, a boy, yay, I had this. I could play hard, run, get dirty, and make forts. We could practice burping the alphabet. This was right up my alley.
With my son Jeff and his wife Laura, expecting I heard the words, “It's a girl.” First, I was so excited. Yay, a girl. And then I thought, “I don't know what to do with a girl.” It kind of scared me.
I really didn't know anything about little girls. I was about to encounter an unexpected joy. Watching and participating in Evie's growth has been immensely satisfying.
As I write this, Evie is four and a half. She is so special to me. She's very much a girly girl, and at this age, everything is about the color pink. She does ballet. She dances and sings and wears dresses, and loves doing makeup and putting on jewelry.
Ever the little mother, she has dolls that she feeds and puts down for naps. I have some butterfly wings that we strap on our backs, and we fly around the yard, stopping to eat from colorful flowers.
Evie likes to spend the night at our house. We have routines. I always give her a little battery powered light to keep by her bed. She turns it into a campfire and gathers stuffed animals around it.
She always wants a pushup bar in the morning while we watch an episode of Paw Patrol. She wants to dance the hokey pokey.
We do pedicures and arts and crafts. She always wants an ice cream cone after dinner. It's papa's job to make sure that we have a supply on hand.
She loves to play restaurant where we take turns being the waitress and customer. She usually comes to the restaurant with six or seven of her kids, a variety of dolls and stuffed animals, and she always orders meals for them and fusses over them without eating herself.
I can see her future. She has the kindest soul. Evie is an empath. She feels so deeply. I have to be careful around her because if I were to get angry or upset, she would be so hurt. If I stub my toe, she cries.
When her brother Grant came along, she welcomed and loved him immediately. There was no jealousy. I love watching them play together. She protects him and takes care of him like nobody's business. She puts him first. I suspect they will be lifelong friends.
Evie is a perfect combination of her parents. Jeff has given her a sharp wit and a sense of humor along with a sense of discipline. Both of them have loved her well, and she oozes self-confidence.
I am so grateful they live close enough that I get to visit frequently, and her parents share her with me. Her papa, John, adores her as well, and we always look forward to her visits.
During her last overnight visit, we went on a shopping trip. We had so much fun. I love taking time with her as she pod through dresses and shoes, commenting on how adorable certain things were. We weren't on a mission, we were just enjoying being together. We spent hours doing this. It was so easy. This girl is up for anything.
She's not whiny or fussy or demanding. We had lunch together and discussed really important stuff like what our first, second, and third favorite colors are, and whether we like chocolate or vanilla better.
I told her my favorite color was named Evie Eye Blue. The color of her eyes. When I dropped her home, she cried when I had to leave, which secretly makes me smile. But she hadn't had enough time with me, and that is always the best time to leave, still wanting more, and there will be more, lots more.
I look forward with all my heart to watching this special girl grow into a beautiful young woman. I love you, Evie, nani.
[Music Playing]
So, my husband and I are a blended family. Between the two of us, we have five children, nine grandchildren, four great-grandchildren, and one on the way. We will have six under six at our outing this summer.
I raised my two boys, and I loved being a mom, but the minute I became a grandparent, it was so different. And I always joke with my kids, “I really love you guys, but my world is these grandkids.” I love being a grandparent.
And it's not just that you can take them home when you're done with them, there's just a really special relationship. I think it's because I'm not stressed with raising them and getting them to the doctor and getting them to school. I kind of get all the fun parts.
I've had a grandmother that lived with me, and when she was in her late 80s, my uncle suggested that she start writing like essays. So, he would give her a topic about every month, and she would write it in her horrible penmanship because she was elderly and send it to my uncle.
And I didn't know this was happening, but after she died, my uncle had gathered them all together and put them in like a kind of a crude little booklet and made photocopies for all of us and sent them to us.
And I treasure those little handwritten stories. It was kind of like the early version of Storyworth, I think.
Hannah Leach:
Yeah, right.
Carol Robson:
But it's a treasure to have.
Hannah Leach:
Thank you for sharing that with me. That's weird how similar it is.
Carol Robson:
I know it. I know. And I look at my book and it is so beautiful. I mean, it's really done nicely, and it has hard back and picture in the front and pictures inside. And I like the fact that I got to choose the pictures that I wanted to go with each story. That was fun. It's fun to write.
Krista Baum:
Our final story today is written by Phyllis Saraceni. She tells us all about her fabulous, vivacious, and troubled mother. And just a content warning, this story includes mentions of suicide.
Phyllis Saraceni:
My name is Phyllis Saraceni. I'm from Glen Mills, Pennsylvania, and I have a story of Memories of my Mom.
They told her she could never have children, so she showed them and had nine. In my most painful teenage moments when I hated her the most, I would accuse her of having nine kids just because she wanted to prove the doctors wrong.
But of course, I was wrong about her. She had us all because she loved children, hers, and everyone else's.
Ours was the house where all neighborhood kids were welcome. Anytime of the day or night, there was always a light on, and there was always someone home.
When I was a kid, I thought my mom was a fairy princess. She wore high heels, dangly earrings, tight pants, and did the limbo like nobody's business. She was beautiful, and I wanted to be just like her.
But somewhere between kid number nine and the harsh realities of everyday life, things changed. I guess the absolute worst day was when my mom tried to kill herself. I was 16-years-old, the third of nine children.
Mom was Patsy to her, two older brothers, but most people knew her back in those days as Pat. Believe me when I tell you, she was an amazing woman. Beautiful, loving, graceful, and mentally ill.
I had plans to go out and, in those days, we always had to check in with mom before we did anything. Mom and dad slept on the porch, which had been converted into the master bedroom by my dad. He was so handy and resourceful and made good use of everything.
Mom's mother, nana slept in the real master bedroom in the house. Mom took her mother in years before. Mom took care of everyone. She just must have forgotten to take care of herself.
She had been depressed and was sleeping all the time, which was very unlike her. I just wanted to sneak into her room and wake her up and tell her I was going out for a while. You had to be careful when you woke up mom. All you had to do was touch her shoulder or whisper quietly in her ear, and she would jump up like a jackrabbit, all wild-eyed, still half asleep, hair sticking up every which way.
She'd grab you and shake you and say, “What? What is it?” She was always ready for any catastrophe and always assumed there was one.
Anyway, this particular evening, I went into her room to gently wake her up. I touched her shoulder and nothing happened. My older sister, Patsy came in just then and we shook her, and she was not responding. We knew something was wrong.
Patsy tucked her arms under mom and lifted her shoulders off the bed, and she flapped around like a ragdoll. We both started panicking and screaming, “Mom, mom, wake up.” Some of the little kids heard our commotion and started getting curious. We were on the verge of a total meltdown.
Now I know we have always had several guardian angels watching over my family because was right at that moment, my father pulled into the driveway. Kids were pouring out of the house screaming for him.
He came into the bedroom and scooped up my mother without so much as a question and raced her off to the hospital. He got there just in time. They pumped her stomach and performed the other miracles they do, and got her stabilized. But she was in a coma, and she stayed that way for several days.
We kids did our homework, ate our dinner, took care of each other. We always have. Dad took care of us too, and was prepared for whatever the future had in store for him. He was pretty amazing.
I remember driving home from the hospital a few nights later with dad. It was just the two of us in the hospital for a quick visit with mom. Mom was on a ventilator and the doctors told my dad she probably wasn't going to make it.
Dad had nine kids at home, the youngest one, just six-years-old. My sister, Patsy and I were the oldest girls, we were taking on a lot of responsibility. Dad and I were talking about what we would do once mom was gone and how we would manage to get by without her.
I remember thinking that it felt like we were talking about any normal daily problems that occur in a house of nine kids.
Even then, I don't think I was all that scared. I knew dad would take care of us and between the 10 of us, we'd manage somehow to get by.
Well, mom proved them wrong again, and she did survive. Shortly after that night, she came out of her coma. After she was well enough to come out of the real hospital, they put her in the mental hospital, not a crisis center or halfway unit. This was the big time, a state mental institution where the tough lifer mental patients go.
Now things were getting scary. I have spotty memories of what it was like to go into mental hospitals in those days. For the longest time, I think I just blocked most memories out of my head as a form of self-preservation.
Sneaking in, so no one would see me, feeling a certain connection with the people from the outside going up on the elevator to the crazy floor. Big scary looking men, looking in corners, strange people, crazy people coming up to you and talking to you. The smell, the staff, just the process to get in, locked doors, sign-in sheets, searched bags.
But it wasn't always this way. Once upon a time, we were just a normal young family. I think some people probably envied my parents because we were all so amazingly healthy and perfect. One after another, we were born, and mom and dad proudly presented us to the world. We were spit shined in our Sunday best.
I remember one Easter mom dressed us all girls in the same Easter outfits. Same white pocketbooks, same white hats, same angel-white socks. The only difference was in the color of our dresses. We were fabulous. Mom was so beautiful, and dad was so handsome. And the kids, well, we were darling.
Those same people saw us differently after mom went into the mental hospital. But in fact, we were all still the same. An imperfect family with amazing parents who loved us. They did the best they could with what they had.
Mom remained beautiful, loving and mentally ill for the rest of her life, and she continued to love all us kids and then our children and their children with all her heart every day for the rest of her life. We were so amazingly blessed to have her before a mom and a nan.
[Music Playing]
Hannah Leach:
So, in your story, you repeat multiple times, like mom was loving, beautiful, fabulous, and mentally ill, and those were all true about her at the same time. It feels like you're very at peace with that part of her. And I'm wondering, when you got to that point of just accepting it, or did you always feel that way?
Phyllis Saraceni:
To me it's like death. You go through these stages of grief, like this can't be right. There's some magic pill. There's something they're doing wrong. Something's not right about this.
And then, for us and my whole family really, you realize that mental illness is like any other illness. And unfortunately, some of us suffer with it and some of us don't. Some of us have depression and some of us don't.
I do not know depression in my life, and I'm grateful for that. It makes me sad that my mother had to live with it and how it affected her life in so many ways. But she truly was a beautiful, loving, wonderful human being with joy in her heart every day. And anyone who knows her would repeat that.
Hannah Leach:
I love the part about the dresses. Everyone being fabulous in their matching dresses.
Phyllis Saraceni:
Did you see the picture, Hannah?
Hannah Leach:
Oh my God, yes. It's so cute.
Phyllis Saraceni:
I have two brothers and I have six sisters, and my littlest brother in that photo, my brother Paul is being held. And the oldest of all of us is my brother Peter. And then there's a couple more that came after this photo.
Hannah Leach:
Do you all have P names?
Phyllis Saraceni:
Almost all, but we ran out of P names at number eight. And there were two girls, and we moved to L names.
I'll say it for you. We are Peter, Patsy, Phyllis, Paula, Peggy, Paul, and Pammy. And my mother and father were Pete and Pat. And then my mother had a girl and couldn't do the … and back in those days, there's so many different fabulous names now that people choose, wasn't true back in those days.
So, my mom was looking at Prudence and Penelope, and she thought no. So, she went to L. So, the last two girls are Laura and Lisa.
Hannah Leach:
She couldn't do that to her baby. That's so funny.
Phyllis Saraceni:
So many times in my life, all our friends would say, “Say all the names again. Say all the names again.”
Hannah Leach:
And interacting with you, seeing your beautiful hair, your makeup and everything. Do you think that you inherited some fabulousness from your mom?
Phyllis Saraceni:
My grandmother was fabulous. My mother was fabulous. I think we got good genes from my grandmother and my mother. And we're not showy people, but I personally believe, like my mother, real beauty comes from within. And my mother had that, and my sisters all have that, and I try and have that.
But thank you for noticing my hair. And I try and we all take care of ourselves as my mother did. She was an elder lady, still wearing stiletto heels at times. And I just thought, oh. I don't wear stiletto heels. She did. She was fabulous.
Hannah Leach:
That's amazing. That's so cool. Oh, my God. Well, she sounds like my type of lady, so I wish I could've known her too. She sounds really cool.
[Music Playing]
Phyllis Saraceni:
Yeah, I wish she could've known her or something. She spread a lot of joy around the world, so did her job while she was here.
Hannah Leach:
Yes, for sure.
Phyllis Saraceni:
And created some wonderful beings, being a mom is the most amazing, amazing role you could ever have. So, she did it well. She taught us all to do it. My sisters are beautiful, wonderful moms, as well as she was. And we truly learned that from her.
Thank you for allowing me to talk to you about her and sharing her story. I truly believe if just one person gets to hear mom's story and her personal struggles, it will honor her.
Krista Baum:
Thanks for joining us today. Moms, we hope you are well celebrated, and feel the love. If you want to get started writing your life stories or want to give the gift of Storyworth to a loved one, head over to storyworth.com.
We'll be back soon with a special episode for Father's Day. And in the meantime, if you want one of your stories to be considered for the podcast, head to storyworth.com/podcast.
Storyworth is a production of Evergreen Podcasts hosted by me, Krista Baum, and produced by Hannah Rae Leach. We get production help from Jill Granberg. Happy Mother's Day, Jill. And our mix engineer is Sean Rule-Hoffman.
We'll see you next time.
Recent Episodes
View AllHey Myrna, is there anything your parents forgot to mention?
Storyworth | S:3 E:13Donna, what was the Greatest Generation?
Storyworth | S:3 E:12Steven, what was your grandpa like?
Storyworth | S:3 E:11Jill, have you ever felt alone?
Storyworth | S:3 E:9Hear More From Us!
Subscribe Today and get the newest Evergreen content delivered straight to your inbox!