Mama Said, Mama Said.

For generations, mothers have shared their words of wisdom, passed them down.

You know, like, look both ways before you cross the street, brush your teeth, wait till your father gets home, and my personal favorite, you'll thank me one day.

You're about to join us on a journey of motherhood like no other.

We'll cross cultural barriers, span generations, women sharing stories of courage and triumph, heartache, redemption, love, and acceptance.

Reminding us all that in the end, what Mama said guides our inner soul.

You'll laugh, you'll cry, you will be inspired.

come on.

Hi.

My name is Linda Anderson Little, and I'm a minister of a Lutheran church in Dallas, Texas.

My mom, always wanted us to look good when we walked out the door.

She never went grocery shopping without her lipstick on.

So I learned that it's important to, you know, show up to go up and always look your best when you go out.

And then also the importance of education.

She worked instead of going to college so that my dad could finish college.

And it was very important that all three of her daughters completed college.

The age old tale of the man flu gets debunked as Linda sets the story straight, solving overpopulation.

I farted Walking out of a fancy Indian restaurant after having a nice lunch with my husband.

It wasn't an SBD fart, you know, silent but deadly, that anyone could have let slip out.

Had it been, I could have walked out the door, and nobody would have been the wiser.

But I was walking toward the door, so I kept on going, and I marched down the street like the businesswoman I appeared to be.

There was only one couple who remained in the restaurant.

I had gotten the name and phone number of the woman so that I could give her a makeover.

I looked so sharp that day, Mary Kay herself would have approved.

Until I hit the ground a little too hard, and there it was, the fart that announced my departure.

I didn't even know it was there, like a leopard lying in wait, hiding in the bush, ready to bounce on its prey.

I never called that woman for a facial because I was afraid that she heard it, and she thinks I'm the lady in the blue suit who farts.

It was a good thing I didn't sneeze or I would have peed too.

It's the new postpartum form of multitasking.

If I had dropped something and bent over all hell would have broken loose.

My husband thinks because he had a painful kidney stone, land him in the ER, that he has experienced the equivalent of childbirth.

Well, this doesn't wash with me.

Once diagnosed, they gave him drugs that completely knocked him out.

He slept until it was time to pee into a strainer.

The stone was no bigger than a large grain of sand.

Well, this is nothing like the nine pound baby and the two eight and a half pounders who followed.

I think Robin Williams had it right when he suggested that guys who want to experience childbirth should try and open an umbrella up their ass.

I discussed my loss of control with an OBGYN at a Day of the Dead dinner party, and doctor Kim is comfortable discussing anything anywhere.

So I asked if Kegel exercises would help, you know, with the suck up ability of gas passing.

And her hands danced in the air like finger puppets in the shape of lady parts and buttholes.

And the other diners at the table looked askance, obviously thinking, oh my god, what are they talking about?

And I empathized when I looked down at my plate and remembered that we were eating chicken swimming in chocolate brown mole sauce.

Well, doctor Kim said that kegels would not help with the gas, but surgery could fix the leaking problems.

And she decided to have surgery after a disastrous evening of drinking, laughing, and dancing while peeing across the polka floor.

Well, my fart didn't seem so bad after that.

Another friend shared that jumping on a trampoline after two beers was another non postpartum activity.

So bring extra pants or a bag of depends if you wanna try this at your neighborhood block party.

So my choice was to go about my business in my bladder stretched, fart prone world, and just gush about how all this inconvenience is worth it because look at these beautiful children, or I could have surgery.

Will insurance cover it?

Will it be considered a medical necessity?

How bad does it have to be?

My husband does not live with any of these problems or questions.

Drinking enough water solves his problem.

Drinking too much creates mine.

Peeing solves his problem.

Peeing creates mine.

So guys, I appreciate the pain, but a kidney stone does not equal childbirth.

Just because I knew I had become so strong from becoming a mother, but what no one ever really prepared me for was, you know, the one thing that could possibly affect me would be my own kids.

And so I knew that there were other people that would be able to relate to my story.

So that's what made me wanna write in.

Navigating life as a young single mom of a beautiful boy was Asaki superpower.

Little did she know one day he would bring her to her knees.

Kryptonite.

There's nothing on earth that can hurt me, but then I had kids.

Let me explain.

I'm a single mom of two, one boy, one girl.

When I had my son at the age of 22, I was alone and terrified.

Being a single mom helped me to grow a kind of thick skin that goes unmatched.

I had to get tough, put my big girl panties on to get my together.

After just ten days of giving birth to my son, I went back to college and finished my degree like I had never left.

My son attended classes with me.

I was seated at a desk or a table, and he was right next to me in his stroller.

He made me my best self.

With my kid happy and healthy, there was nothing anyone could say to me because I was strong.

I graduated with a 3.7 GPA.

My son made me a boss.

My kid was my wife, so I had no other option but to make sure he was his best self at all times.

I felt untouchable because single motherhood made me a superhero.

My son grew up to be super smart.

He's his own person, and everyone who meets him loves him immediately.

He gets good grades in school, he's super handsome, and he's always respectful, and he has the biggest heart of anyone that I know.

To top it off, he's a superstar athlete.

When he turned 13, he wanted to move in with his dad.

It was tough, but I was able to put my pride aside, and I allowed it.

Communication changed a bit, I no longer saw him every day, but I did my best to know everything going on with him.

Fast forward to sophomore year in high school, my son was now the star football player at the homecoming game.

I was super excited to watch him play, The cheerleaders perform, the band plays, and the students and fans were hyped.

I was beyond ecstatic to have a high school sophomore on the starting lineup of the varsity football game.

It was a fantastic game, and the crowd was wild.

Proud was an understatement.

Then over the loud speaker I heard, well the escorts of the homecoming court start making their way down to the track.

Several parents and friends got up.

Behind me, my son's father stood up and began to head down to the track.

I turned to my son's grandmother and asked if my son was on the homecoming court.

She said, yes.

I was shocked, confused, and embarrassed that I didn't know.

How could I not know that my own son was on the homecoming court?

In my disbelief and confusion, I asked his grandmother if I was supposed to go down to the track and report like the other escorts.

She simply replied, no.

He said that he only wanted his dad to escort him.

My heart shattered into a million pieces.

My mind began replaying his childhood years of the sleepless nights, smiles, tears, games, meets, teacher conferences, the sacrifice that I made, the everything.

And now, my son, my only my oldest child, my right hand man, the one who is the reason why I am the woman today, only wanted to acknowledge his other half, his dad.

I quickly turned to his grandmother while attempting to choke out the words to say, what the hell is going on?

Before she simply said, oh, he didn't want me a part of it either, As if that was supposed to make me feel better.

If anything, it made me feel worse, as if it was a big secret that everyone but me knew about.

I did my best to smile while holding back the ugly tears as the homecoming court lined up.

Then the announcer called my son's name.

Son of only mentioned his dad's name.

It was as if in that moment, I didn't exist.

I was nothing.

Single motherhood made me a superhero.

But then, high school, sophomore year, homecoming happened, and I realized my kids are my kryptonite.

I think I walked through a lot of my life pre kids pretty delusional.

And I have been truly humbled by motherhood, and that is something that just ruminates through my head, is how humbling every single day of parenthood is.

We all have dreams of what our futures will look like, and then reality sets in and smacks us right in the face.

Carolyn knows a thing or two about this.

Mother humbled.

Growing up, I did not think I was gonna be a mom.

I didn't have names secretly picked out or dreams of what motherhood would be like.

No.

I was gonna move to New York, find a tall, handsome, much older man with kids my age who would hate that I married their father.

And after college, I did make it to New York.

But I came home after my dad passed away to be there for my mom.

Editor's note, I'm an only child with an unhealthy amount of enmeshment issues and a hearty amount of Catholic guilt.

I digress.

So this course redirection in my life ended up with me finding the exact opposite of all of the things I wanted in a man.

He was short, younger, no children, might as well have been one.

Oh, wait.

That's for my therapist.

Sorry.

As for me, I had to grieve the fact that I would never be a hot stepmom and instead, just a regular mom.

Before kids, I had a lot of feedback from my own mother about her parenting.

Don't get me wrong, I am pretty amazing.

But there are things that she could have done better, and I was gonna do right by my children.

But since I hadn't really thought much about motherhood up until the point of me actually becoming a mother, I felt immense pressure to focus on the most important things.

Like my daughter's first Halloween costume, a mini Ruth Bader Ginsburg seemed perfect, or that peaking in high school lands you on a steady and fast decline to the bottom.

I truly believed that I was going to raise little savants, trauma free children who were so enlightened.

But from the moment my daughter was yanked from my loins, I knew I was in over my head.

Listen.

I took the classes.

I read the books.

But something those books never talk about is just how humbling motherhood is.

For example, words.

Mhmm.

I used to have a lot of words.

Not anymore.

Not with these kids.

They are irrational little terrorists that cannot be negotiated with.

My conversations these days consist of me begging my little spawn to tell me the juicy playground drama.

Ease.

Friends.

I had so many friends.

Well, I had a few friends.

But finding the time and energy to call friends back, I was completely incapable of.

And that brings me to the biggest humble in motherhood that I've experienced, trying to make mom friends.

You gotta, one, leave the house.

You have to send and respond to text messages.

Learn how to have normal conversations with adults again.

And whatever you do, do not overshare or trauma dump to potential new friend, all of which my ADHD has made impossible for me to do.

And even if I managed to get to, like, a play date stage with a potential new mom friend, I always had to hope to God that my kids didn't have a meltdown that resembled a scene from The Exorcist.

I am no longer a confident, somewhat delusional, young 20, 30, running around, having fun, not drinking my water or forgetting to wear sunscreen.

Nope.

Because I have been mother humble.

I am the mom that doesn't get a second play date, who forgets to pack the snack, misses the practices, forgets to sign the forms, loses the library books, currently has 978 unread texts, give or take a few.

Emails scare me.

Incoming calls are way worse.

And for the life of me, I cannot get my kids to school on time.

I was tardy so many times last year, and I couldn't bear another shaming from the school secretary.

I called him in sick and took him to the movies.

I do not have this motherhood thing figured out at all.

I am still very much in the trenches.

I'm not really sure why I'm here right now, but and I fear I am messing them up daily.

Most days, I just wanna curl up in a ball and have my mom take care of me.

So now, when I think about the future, my only hope is that one day when my kids are messing up their kids, they'll wanna snuggle up next to me.

Hi, everyone.

I'm Fatemeh Mardi, and my mom is from St.

Louis, and my dad is from Iran.

I'm a mother of two.

And the worst gift that I received was after I had left, my ex tried to shower me with some gifts, and the types of gifts that he gave me showed me just how little he actually knows about me.

And so even though they were the worst gifts because it seemed like he was a stranger after 24, my neighbors could have picked out better gifts.

But in a way, they were really great gifts because they were showing me just how far apart we were.

And so I'm grateful for that.

And I couldn't keep them.

I just passed them on to Savers and Goodwill.

The most important thing in a mother's world is the safety of our children.

Fatemeh knows all too well about just that, mama bear.

What will you tell your kids when they're grown and ask what you did to protect them from their father.

That's what my friend asked me on a Saturday last February when I was pacing the halls of the Chemistry Building at WashU.

I had signed up my 15 year old daughter for an engineering day sort of experience called catalysts for change.

Instead of heading back home, I called people I thought could help me.

The abuse had gotten worse, and I was looking for advice.

There are some things about being a mom I'm good at: letting them find their way, supporting them, providing them fun and educational opportunities, and loving them.

There is one thing I did not know how to do well: how to stand up for them when they needed it the most.

With all my heart, I knew his ways were wrong: the physical and psychological abuse, the gaslighting, the manipulation, the silent treatment, the threats, it was all too much to bear, but bear it, I did.

I chose to keep the peace instead of protecting my kids.

I chose to ignore every red flag at the expense of our worth and our health.

I also chose to keep my home life a secret.

My colleagues, my friends, when they looked at me, they saw serenity, a lake without ripples.

In reality, my life was being eroded by constantly crashing waves.

By the March, he had already kicked out my daughter.

He had already kicked my daughter out of the house.

It was not the first time, but I made sure it was the last.

I chose to break what I held sacred for twenty four years.

I shattered what I thought was right for so long and found the courage to build a new way of life.

It was late, but I did it.

My kids saw what Mama Bear can do when she needs to.

They know what it's like to live from a car for seven days, not knowing what will happen next.

They know I will do whatever I need to in order to protect their bodies and their precious souls.

Tolerate, endure, survive.

I knew how to do those as a parent and a wife.

Draw the line, say no, insist that enough is enough.

I didn't know how to do those for my babies.

When it came time to shop for decorations for our new home, there were so many laugh and love signs at the stores.

I made my own sign.

It says safe to remind us how blessed we are to be safe and how it's our responsibility to maintain a place we all feel emotionally protected in.

By the door, there's a figurine of a black bear pulling up her two cubs.

That's me.

Every day in new ways.

This mama bear has discovered what she will do to protect her kids, anything and everything, so that they are safe.

Because as the story goes, baby bears need their mama bear.

I just decided to do one of my songs that I wrote about motherhood and put the backstory to that and did the audition.

Little did Laurie know that just trying to do her business in peace would one day jump start a music career.

Poop in peace.

I wrote this song in a eighteen sixties cottage style small house with seven boys, It only had one bathroom and a few pea trees out in the backyard.

So I started playing guitar in 1996 when our number six was nine months old.

It was a really hot fall day, and I had our window open, above the bathroom in the bathroom, above the toilet, and the boys were outside running around playing after school, and apparently, the pre k boy that day had learned how to dial 911.

So I'm sitting on the toilet, which is directly under the open window, and suddenly there's a hard knock at the back door.

And I, of course, couldn't get it up because I was sitting there doing my business, and I just sat quietly and the knock kept continuing, and I said, who is it?

And a policeman at the other end said, this is a police and someone called 911 from this address.

Well, I was mortified and I still couldn't get up, and I had to tell him that one of my sons had learned how to dial 911 in school, and there was no emergency that day other than my humiliation and ment.

Thank God he left.

I looked at myself in the mirror and I screamed, why can't I just poop in peace?

I had a meltdown, I didn't know what to do, I'm sitting there on my throne, I finished my business, I pulled up my big girl pants, and I vented and wrote this song and it's called poop and peace.

Okay.

It should be a sign when they come out so bloody a warning bell rings.

Get ready to test ye.

They get bundled up and smell so sweet.

Are you sure you're ready for the ultimate link?

Chances are you must learn to let it all go.

Other things before them that you now know.

All I wanna do is to poop in peace.

Leave me alone so I can make my release.

All I wanna do is to poop in peace.

Nobody tells you there will be no repeats.

There will be puking poop to clean up, which turns in the spills from their cup.

Before you know it, they're grown, coming at you with back talking moans.

At which point in time, you'll feel old and gray and wonder where it went.

All your time will play.

All I wanna do is to prove and peace.

Leave me alone so I can make my release.

All I wanna do is to prove and peace.

Nobody tells you there will be no peace.

They'll give you much love.

Mommy, there's somebody on the phone, but you must give it first.

Mommy, so you can quench their thirst.

We need you.

You must know that they will want for you to stay at home at least until they think they're old enough to roam.

You better think twice before you pay the price.

You'll spend the rest of your life for the supreme sacrifice all I wanna do is to poop in peace leave me alone so I can make my release all I wanna do is to poop in peace nobody tells you there will be no more peace Thank you.

I am a grandmother.

I have four grandchildren.

And I realized that being a mom is like, it's like being a roadie.

You have to do all this work, this heavy lifting.

But being a Grammy is like being a rock star.

You get to get all the accolades and you show up, you bake cookies, and then you leave.

And the parents have to put the kids to bed.

So it was star, roadie versus rock star.

Grammys are the rock stars.

Parents are the roadies.

Sue tells us all about the pure joy of being Grammy.

The Rockstar versus the Roadies.

Being a Grammy is a rockstar.

Being a parent?

Well, parents are the Roadies.

They're loading and unloading heavy all day, Sweating, stressing.

But when you're a Grammy, you get to walk on stage, shine in the spotlight, and then leave.

When I was a mom, I'd cut my daughter's bangs, and they'd be uneven.

So I'd even them out.

And then I'd see to my dismay that I had overcompensated.

So I trimmed more off.

By the time I got them semi even, her bangs were a quarter inch long.

As a Grammy, the only hair concern I have is if I'm spraying the pretend hairspray in a convincing way when we play beauty shop.

And by the way, my grandchildren think my hair looks fabulous no matter what kind of crazy combination of shades have happened once L'Oreal and my grays have battled it out.

Once, years ago, when I asked my preteen son to help me pick out a hair dye color, which one would blend in best?

He suggested white.

White my ass.

When I was a mom of young kids, I made sure the family had a balanced meal to eat and snacks were not allowed too close to lunch or dinner.

The other day, after a trip to the art museum, one of my grandsons reported to his mom in a thrilled voice, Grammy let me eat her snack in her car.

His mother explained that's a no no at their house.

She doesn't like crumbs in the car.

Crumbs in the car?

Who gives a That's what I have a dog for.

Radar will clean up any crumbs the next time we drive to the park.

When I was a mother of teens, my kids knew I wore old lady clothes, they knew I did old lady things, and they knew I had no athletic ability whatsoever.

When my first granddaughter was four, I played in a softball game, and I struck out all three times that I was at bat, each time with a different Lucille Ball type swing.

As we were getting into the car after the game, Riley said, Grammy, you were phenomenal!

Only grandchildren think of a strikeout queen as phenomenal.

When my kids were young, they would have been horrified if they knew that when I put my bra on, I have to fold my boobs up like they're origami projects.

My grandkids, they love that I'm soft and mushy like a marshmallow.

All the better for hugging.

So when I'm encouraging my grandson to gobble up chocolate chip cookies before I drop him off, here, have another.

I made one especially for you.

When I was babysitting my granddaughter as a toddler, and we were watching a pre bedtime movie, and it was only the opening credits, and I was already half asleep, Grammy, why do your eyes keep closing?

When my granddaughter Riley, who's now 19, is excited about the challenge of teaching me how to use an eyebrow pencil, I feel like a rock star.

And as soon as I fill them up with sugar and spoil them, I'll hand them back to the parents, the roadies.

I just hope that people who hear the story realize that things happen in the community, but it's not all bad.

We're families who love each other, and we're a community and trying to work hard to have the best for our families and create a safe and warm environment.

And we would hope that people would start to come together and sit at the table and be a part of so they better understand that, and I know it's an old adage that people say over and over again, but we really are more alike than we are different.

Darice shows us that even in the toughest of times, moms have the power to rise up, have hope, and spread love in any way they can, hopeful and at peace.

My son, my husband, and I were crowded around the prosecuting attorney's table because the rest of the seats were filled with the friends and family supporting the young man who was being sentenced that day for shooting my son two years prior.

He broke into Aaron's house and woke him up when he entered his bedroom.

They struggled over the gun and he shot my son three times.

And one of the bullets paralyzed Aaron from the waist down.

The sentence the court decided on was twenty five years.

During the final phase of the hearing, I had no idea what to say when it was my turn to speak to the court.

I could hear my footsteps echoing through the courtroom as I approached the judge.

I told myself, don't lose your mind.

Simply talk to the man.

Just express what's in your heart.

I said to him, his wife is too angry to be here.

They're newlyweds.

She and Aaron were planning on a family.

The bedroom next to theirs had walls painted with baby Looney Tunes figures.

Now they can't have the family they dreamed of.

Whatever sentence this young man gets pales to my son's lifetime sentence.

When the young man's mother spoke, as she walked up the aisle, she was mumbling to herself, this is too much time.

This is too much time for my boy.

When she expressed, I'm sure as much to the judge, when the young man began to speak, as soon as he started to speak, his voice triggered a memory in me that he had told my son to lie down when he put the gun to him.

And you know, we've mostly seen in gangster movies and that that means that they're going to kill you.

Thankfully, Aaron wasn't going to lie down literally or figuratively.

My son wanted to live.

Unable to control myself, I left the courtroom.

Right away, the young man's mother and his sister followed me into the hallway to apologize.

They were both crying.

His mother said, I didn't raise my son to be like that.

I never thought I'd give birth to a child that would shoot someone.

I reached out and hugged her.

I held her tightly against me.

I said, when you give birth to a child, you have the highest expectations for them.

Our tears mingled into a shared stream of sorrow.

We both had lost a son.

She was losing a son to prison.

I had lost us the son who dreamed of being a chiropractor and trainer, of being a dad, of living the easy life, active life he enjoyed for twenty four years.

During that tight embrace, I forgave her.

After all, his mother didn't shoot my son.

As an educator, I valued every child that came to me, each one full of possibilities.

I was well aware Aaron had both of his parents involved, and I was aware of his comings and goings.

And yet it was no guarantee that my involvement would keep him safe.

And yes, my son was the victim, but it could easily have been Aaron, who was a shooter if circumstances were different.

I learned many years ago that forgiveness can be healing.

It it is a gift as well.

I could see her pain and I thought maybe sharing this gift would help her in this moment of grief.

I certainly needed it for myself to release the bitterness and anger that was consuming me.

That moment in the courtroom's hallway will forever be a part of my heart.

Now, now, my son, my son is good.

He and his wife adopted two boys, Ian and Eli, who are the light of my life.

Aaron earned his second master's degree, and he used his experience to become an invaluable part of Paraquad.

And he is now working as an occupational therapist at a local hospital.

Aaron continues to inspire me because he gets up every morning with joy and hope in his heart.

And if they had started the family that they wanted in the beginning, I would have different grandbabies now.

I wouldn't trade Ian and Eli for the world.

And you may wonder if Aaron has periods of anger and times he feels defeated due to his injuries.

Of course.

Are there times when life is way more problematic because he's in a wheelchair?

Sure.

But mostly, he's hopeful and at peace with the dramatic life changes he survived.

And the joy that fills him up when he's bathing his boys or going on Cub Scout camping trips with them or reading books to them at night.

Well, that brings me a little peace as well.

A woman sharing the story of her mother who was very complicated, smart, sophisticated, beautiful, but also a train wreck, self destructive party girl, even though she had five children, a high functioning alcoholic, but a complicated woman.

And I think that if you really want to honor somebody, you have to tell the truth about who they were.

If somebody passes away and they magically turn into a saint who never did anything wrong, you're not actually honoring their memory as best as you can.

The hauntingly beautiful poem, Emma May, written by her daughter, Heather.

Her name, Emma May.

My mother was magic, not the kind that pulls rabbits from hats or saws women in half, the kind that vanishes before your eyes, disappearing into smoke, only reappearing when she want it to be seen.

She was wildfire in a silk dress, a storm brewing behind hazel eyes that couldn't pick a single color, shifting from moss to whiskey, from honey to rage.

Her moods, like her eyes, were unpredictable, beautiful, dangerous.

She told me not to bother with a funeral.

No weeping over caskets.

No cheap carnations wilting in the heat of morning.

She didn't want a final resting place, only dust and wind.

She didn't know where she belonged, where she fit, so she couldn't tell me where to put her.

And yet, she is still here.

Every time I pack my life into boxes, she moves with me, A quiet passenger tucked inside an too small for a woman who once filled every room she entered.

My mother drank herself to death.

The doctors called it organ failure as if it were her body that betrayed her and not the bottle she cradled like an old lover who never let her down.

Colon cancer might have been the executioner, but addiction held the blade.

I never blamed her.

With the childhood she had, it was a miracle she mostly only chose liquor, that she didn't pick something sharper, harder to end the ache.

On her deathbed, she had only one fear, that she would be forgotten, that her stories would die with her, that she would simply disappear.

So I speak her name, Emma May, a woman you could not look away from even when you should have.

She was a symphony of love and wreckage, an artist with her words, able to paint entire rooms in adoration, or burning bridges to the ground with a single searing sentence.

She was a mother who loved her children more fiercely than she loved herself.

And I know if there is an afterlife, she is there interrupting God and the devil just to get the last word in.

She taught me to be brave, to take up space, to never apologize for the fire in my own bones, and her one fear unfounded.

I always write funny, or try to be funny, and I realized that I'm repeating some of the same patterns with my grandchildren that I did with my children.

Whether that's good or bad, I don't know.

But I had a humorous experience with my two youngest grandsons and thought that I would like to talk about that.

Sometimes moms need to get a little creative, or in Terri's case, bribe them just to get a little peace and quiet.

Bedtime bribery.

Kids, it's time to get in bed.

You've had drinks and snacks, books and stories, hugs and kisses.

I even used the extra strength Monster Spray under your beds.

Now for the love of God, get in bed and stay there.

It was a struggle.

Our first four kids were within six years.

They needed their sleep, but most of all, I needed a couple of kid free hours each evening to unwind.

Somehow my kids didn't get the memo, or maybe most of them were too young to actually read the memo.

From babyhood on, our oldest son rarely slept.

He didn't cry, but his eyes were always open.

It was like he had a bad case of FOMO, you know, fear of missing out.

At two, he started trying to climb out of his crib, which was dangerous because he was not all that coordinated.

On his first twin bed night, despite the bed rails, he gleefully toddled into the living room.

My husband and I took turns returning him to his bed.

And after the fortieth trip, he seemed to get the idea.

By then, my patients had run out and all I wanted to do was crawl into my bed.

A few years later, our middle son started getting up in the night.

And with his eyes fixed in a trance like stare, he'd sleepwalk into his siblings' rooms.

Pandemonium would ensue.

Mom, he looks like a zombie and he keeps asking for french fries.

He's creeping me out.

Or my least favorite, mom, he thinks he's in the bathroom, and he's peeing in my hamper.

Eventually, he outgrew his zombie walking, but then he started slipping out of his bed sometime in the night to curl up on the floor, usually in one of his siblings' bedrooms.

The night I fell over him as he slept outside my bedroom door, I knew things had to change.

Reasoning with him went nowhere, but I knew he had a long wish list and no money.

I told him he could earn a dollar for every night he slept in his room, but he had to keep our shady deal a secret.

There was no way I was paying everyone.

I don't remember exactly how long our arrangement lasted, but he did an admirable job of keeping our secret until he was nearly 40 years old and slipped up at a family dinner.

All hell broke loose.

Why didn't you ever pay us?

And another sibling complained, well, that explains how he was able to buy that fancy go kart when he was only 12 years old.

Fast forward a couple of decades, and now I'm Mimi to my mob of grandkids.

Recently, I was asked to stay with the two youngest grandsons.

Since I was recovering from surgery, an older grandson came along to help.

When bedtime rolled around, I told the boys their cousin would go upstairs with them, read a story, and tuck them in.

I knew I couldn't climb the steep staircase.

Picture Mount Everest.

Now before they could complain, I pulled two crisp dollar bills out of my purse.

One grandson said, thanks Mimi.

Are these dollars for us?

While the other one tried to shake me down.

How about a 5?

I could buy more Yu Gi Oh cards if I had a 5.

I explained the dollars were theirs until they called downstairs or got out of their beds, at which time the money became mine again.

It then occurred to me that although the price of eggs has increased astronomically over the years, my dollar bedtime bribe has remained the same.

Now these boys are hardcore, and bedtime is often delayed by drink, snack, and book requests.

It can be an ordeal.

I really didn't think my plan would work, but it did.

Not a peep, just quiet snoring.

I consider this nothing less than a miracle.

Now when their parents returned, they asked where the boys were, and I nonchalantly told them, oh, the boys, they're in their beds, fast asleep.

They looked amazed.

They checked the clock on the wall as it was early for bedtime.

I'm sure they wondered if I had used some kind of meme voodoo on their offspring, so I came clean.

I used my old tried and true bedtime method.

My son burst out laughing, and my daughter-in-law looked really confused until he said, she paid them to stay in their beds.

My daughter-in-law looked at me with what I interpreted as increased respect and said, that's brilliant.

I don't know why we never thought of that.

Thank you.

So Mama Said Mama Said for thirteen years now has allowed me, like who needs a therapist when you can get up in front of like, you know, 500 people and now on television and tell them all the stupid things you've done?

Overpromise?

Yes.

Overextend?

Yes.

Sign up?

Yes.

Laura is the consummate yes gal.

I, Laura Ray, have discovered syndromes that I blame completely on my uterus.

Why blame my uterus?

Basically, because studies show that men never suffer from any of these.

I've given my diseases catchy little names, like guilt schizophrenia, uncontrollable hysteria syndrome.

But hands down, the mother of all my diseases is what I call generosity spewing syndrome, or GSS for short.

A quick synopsis of GSS is when words start vomiting out of my mouth that I have no control over.

Like, oh, you need a place to live for a while?

No worries.

We have a nice mother in law's quarters down in our basement.

I'm sure my kids and husband won't mind.

Through the summer?

Sure.

Your uncle Harry passed away.

I've never met him, but you always had such nice things about him.

How about if I make 20 beef briskets, and I'll drop them off after the funeral?

Honestly, it's gotten so bad that when my husband walks into the kitchen and I'm making brisket, he says, oh, Who died now?

Or you can't afford a wedding reception?

I've never thrown one, but I bet I can throw a nice one, and, yeah, I'll pay for it.

Or you can't afford a DJ for your daughter's wedding?

I'm sure that my husband won't mind doing it for free.

He's a great guy.

Or you can't find someone to take care of your two 150 pound epileptic, not quite housebroken Russian wolfhounds?

Hopefully, they'll get along with our deaf rescue dog, and I'm sure that the pee stain won't just too stay too badly stain our hardwood floors.

Or you need a lawyer to get your son out of jail.

I'm sure my brother could do it.

He's one of those really nice attorneys.

I'm sure he won't charge you.

And maybe Bobby can stay over our house and detox after he gets out.

All freaking true, and yes, all well meaning offers.

But the minute these words spew, trust me, you get this gut wrenching, vomit inducing feeling.

What the heck was I thinking?

Who am I spending time and money that we really don't have?

The worst is when I just freely spew money and services from my close friends and family without even asking.

I'm an absolute random act of kindness masochist with no boundaries whatsoever.

Hell, I bet that even Buddha would probably point his chubby little finger at me and say, schmuck.

And yes, this year, after years of living with this disease, I know that it's a 100% passed down from mother to daughter.

Anyone who knows my two daughters know it's true.

Years ago, I got a call from Morgan's third grade teacher asking me if it was true that we were throwing her a wedding shower, inviting the entire school.

I looked at my kid who squeamishly looked at me, tears were streaming down her cheek.

I just sighed, yes, missus Hopkins.

Would you prefer shrimp pasta or chicken salad?

And yes, I will have a peanut free option for the kids.

I know I'm not alone.

I'm not going to point any finger to this audience because that would be rude.

And because it's a disease that may pop up one day in the American Medical Association, it would be totally cruel to do public shaming.

So Laura Ray has a dream.

I'm gonna start a chapter of GSS Anonymous right here in Saint Louis, our national headquarters, where all of us inflicted moms can can attend.

We'll sit around in a circle introducing ourselves.

Something like, hi.

I'm Marty F. I just volunteered to be head girl scout leader, room mother, and swim team volunteer coordinator, along with providing snacks for every single meeting.

Hello.

I'm Francine C. In between my nonpaying three part time jobs for nonprofits, I set a protest four days a week, I'm setting up a two day festival trying to win back our community radio station, and I'm thinking about running this for city council.

They really need someone who's sane.

Who knows?

This may just be the solution to the age old mother problem.

Even if it's not, I promise I will have a nice spread of gourmet sandwiches, veggies, three kinds of dips, and bourbon slushies to enjoy during our meeting.

And if you need to bring your epileptic, non housebroken Russian wolfhound with you to the meeting, that'd be great.

Oh, wrong.

Repin it wrong.

I'm not gonna say that.

They've had too much wrong.

Oh my goodness.

Just before I was a teenager and I came out to her as being a part of the LGBTQ community and I was super worried even though I know she's a great mom and she's super supportive and it was only like days, maybe weeks later that she then tells me, hey, by the way, I'm bisexual.

And Jaw just drops to the floor and I'm like, why didn't you tell me this earlier?

And she's like, I didn't wanna steal your moment.

And I'm like, mom, that wouldn't have stolen my moment.

That would have made my life.

Hi.

My name is Ariana.

My only advice to any mom to be that has a little boy on the way, whatever you're expecting, wipe it from your mind because you will have so much happen to you that you will never expect.

The other morning, was changing my son who is three and he woke up and the first words out of his mouth was, mommy, my butthole smells like hotdogs.

So just don't.