A must-read for mothers and daughters about the complexities, cherished moments, and greatest lessons they’ve learned from one another
This compilation of stories will touch the reader’s soul with the funny moments and sentimental times shared by mothers and daughters. This volume includes stories about young women leaving home for the first time to attend college, how mothers and daughters at odds with each other learn to forgive and ...
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Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrating Mothers & Daughters

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A must-read for mothers and daughters about the complexities, cherished moments, and greatest lessons they’ve learned from one another
This compilation of stories will touch the reader’s soul with the funny moments and sentimental times shared by mothers and daughters. This volume includes stories about young women leaving home for the first time to attend college, how mothers and daughters at odds with each other learn to forgive and forget, and how one daughter comes to terms with saying goodbye. The relationship a mother and daughter shares is at times difficult, but in the end, it can be one of the most precious.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781453275818
  • Publisher: Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing
  • Publication date: 9/25/2012
  • Series: Chicken Soup for the Soul Series
  • Sold by: Barnes & Noble
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 350
  • Sales rank: 313,521
  • File size: 2 MB

Meet the Author

Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen are the #1 New York Times and USA Today bestselling authors of the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. They are professional speakers who have dedicated their lives to enhancing the personal and professional development of others.
Frances Firman-Salorio is a therapist who specializes in marriage and family counseling. She lives in Massachusetts.
Dorothy Firman, Ed.D., is a psychotherapist, author, speaker, and trainer who has worked in the field of mother/daughter relationships for more than twenty years.
 Julie Firman is the mother of two daughters—her coauthors—and a son, Thomas Randolph Firman. She and her daughters lead workshops on mother/daughter relationships at conferences around the country. 


While Jack Canfield himself may not necessarily be a household name, it's very likely that you have heard of his famed Chicken Soup for the Soul series and nearly as likely that you have at least one of them sitting on your very own bookshelf! Having got his start as an inspirational speaker, Canfield's own story is nothing less than inspirational.

Jack Canfield had been traveling around delivering key note speeches and organizing workshops to help audiences build their self-esteem and maximize their potential when he had an in-flight brainstorm that changed his life. While flying home from a gig, Canfield realized that the very same advice he had been delivering during his in-person addresses could potentially form the basis of a book. Canfield used inspirational stories he'd gleaned over the years as the basis of his speeches, and he thought it would be a terrific idea to gather together 101 inspirational stories and anthologize them in a single volume. Upon returning home, Canfield approached friend and author Mark Victor Hansen about his concept. Hansen agreed it was a great idea, and the two men set about finding a publisher. Believe it or not, the mega-selling series was not an easy sell to publishers. "We were rejected by 123 publishers all told," Canfield told Shareguide.com. "The first time we went to New York, we visited with about a dozen publishers in a two day period with our agent, and nobody wanted it. They all said it was a stupid title, that nobody bought collections of short stories, that there was no edge -- no sex, no violence. Why would anyone read it?"

Canfield wisely practiced what he preached -- and persisted. Ultimately, he and Hansen sold the first Chicken Soup for the Soul book to a small press based in Deerfield Beach, Florida, called Health Communications. The rest, as they say, is history. There are currently 80 million copies of the Chicken Soup books in print, with subjects as varied as Chicken Soup For the Horse Lover's Soul and Chicken Soup For the Prisoner's Soul. Canfield and Hansen ranked as the top-selling authors of 1997 and are multiple New York Times bestsellers. Most important of all, the inspirational stories they have gathered in their many volumes have improved the lives of countless readers.

This year, expect to see Canfield's name gracing the covers of such titles as Chicken Soup For the Scrapbooker's Soul, Chicken Soup For the Mother and Son Soul, and Chicken Soup For the African American Woman's Soul. He and Hansen have also launched the all-new "Healthy Living" series and 8 titles in that series have already been released this year. There is also the fascinating You've GOT to Read This Book!, in which Canfield compiles personal accounts by 55 people each discussing a book that has changed his or her life. The most compelling of these may be the story of young entrepreneur Farrah Gray, who read Deepak Chopra's The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success at the age of 11 and made his first million dollars at the age of 14!

With no sign of slowing down, Canfield continues to be an inspiration to millions, who fortunately refused to give up when it seemed as though he would never even get his first book published. "Mark and I are big believers in perseverance," he said. "If you have a vision and a life purpose, and you believe in it, then you do not let external events tell you what is so. You follow your internal guidance and follow your bliss, as Joseph Campbell used to say."

Good To Know

Canfield is the founder of two California based self-esteem programs, "Self-Esteem Seminars" in Santa Barbara and "The Foundation For Self Esteem" in Culver City.

Writing the first Chicken Soup book was a lot more daunting than Canfield expected. After the first three years of research, he and Mark Victor Hansen had only compiled 68 stories -- 33 tales shy of their goal of 101 stories.

Along with co-writing dozens of full-length books, Canfield also publishes a free biweekly newsletter called Success Strategies.

Some fun and fascinating outtakes from our interview with Canfield:

"My inspiration for writing comes from my passion for teaching others how to live more effective lives. I started out as a history teacher in an all-black inner city high school in Chicago, graduated to a teacher trainer, then psychotherapist, then trainer of therapists, then large group transformational trainer and then a writer and keynote speaker. All along the way, my desire was to make a difference, to help people live more fulfilling lives. That is what I still do today. Most people don't know this but I was not a good writer in college. I got a C in composition. Nobody would have ever believed I would grow up to be a bestselling author."

"I play guitar, and I am learning to play the piano. I love movies and some TV shows. My favorites are Six Feet Under, Grey's Anatomy, House and Lost. I love to play Scrabble, poker and backgammon with my in-laws, nieces and nephews. We really get into it. I love to travel. I have been to 25 countries and try to add two or three new ones every year."

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    1. Hometown:
      Santa Barbara, California
    1. Date of Birth:
      August 19, 1944
    2. Place of Birth:
      Fort Worth, Texas
    1. Education:
      B.A. in History, Harvard University, 1966; M.A.T. Program, University of Chicago, 1968; M.Ed., U. of Massachusetts, 1973
    2. Website:

Read an Excerpt

Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrating Mothers and Daughters

By Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Dorothy Firman, Julie Firman, Frances Firman Salorio

Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC

Copyright © 2012 Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4532-7581-8



Every mother has the breath-taking privilege of sharing with God in the creation of a new life. She helps bring into existence a soul that will endure for all eternity.

James Keller

What's the Word?

Children reinvent your world for you.

Susan Sarandon

There has to be a perfect title to use for my baby girl, a designation that will express what she means to me. I've tried nicknames, like "Cherub" or "Angel"—they're adorable monikers, but they're just not quite right. And then there's "Sunshine" because she does light up my days. This little one holds my heart in her hands, but I freely extend it to her because her love undoes me. She has captured me just by needing me so much.

There's another nickname I use, but my older girls wonder about it: "Baby Doll." I remember wrapping my beloved dolls in blankets and cooing to them when I was a child. Now the bundle in the blanket moves and coos back. No, "Baby Doll" doesn't quite fit. Then there's "Treasure Bear." She is one of my treasures. She is full of treasure. I adore her, my little five-month-old. Yet, she's not a bear, so I keep searching.

The usual terms of endearment are not quite specific enough—"Sweetie" or "Honey." Not quite.

She is a cutie-pie. She makes me laugh with joy, and I smile until my face hurts just trying to entertain her. She carries the future and reminds me of my childhood. She slobbers on everything and will soak the sleeves of her outfits from sucking on them. But that doesn't lend itself to a name.

I've varied her given name, which is fun, and those titles do stick, but they're not quite right. There must be a word to fully express everything she is—sweet, adorable, lovable and lovely, endearing, strong (oh, how she can communicate her dissatisfaction when necessary!), and gentle. She will take my face in her hands and bring her open mouth close to me. I know she's thinking, "If only I can get Mommy's whole face in my mouth, I will truly experience her!"

That's what I need, a title to sum up the experience of her. I love to enter her room in the morning, walk to her crib, and speak softly to her. I love how she calms at the sound of my voice. I love unwrapping the blankets that soothed her overnight, then scooping her up for a snuggle. How delightful to bathe her, dress her, sing to her, and rock her. How satisfying to feed her and know that as she grows I'm doing the right things. I love her response to my ministrations. She's just begun raising her hands to me. Oh, such rapturous joy! Sure, I knew I was one of her favorite people before now (such a delicious feeling), but suddenly she has the capacity to demonstrate it with more than a cry—with outstretched arms. Yea!

So what is the perfect term to express who she is to me? What her value is to me, and my love for her? There is a word. It's ideal. Yet, it's common, as natural as mothers and their baby girls. It's precious. It's a word that will never sound as dull as it did before my baby girl came along but will always shine with new glorious meaning. A word that teaches me my value even as I assign it to my little girl. It expresses a value that won't fade when she's as old as I am, my own mother's little girl. A special word with hidden meanings. What is it? WHAT IS THAT WORD? ... Delight? ... Joy? ... Sunshine? ... Not quite, not quite, not quite.... AHHHHH.... Now I know.... Daughter. That's the word I've been hunting for.

Annette M. Irby

The Truth

Sooner or later we all quote our mothers.

Bern Williams

I never yearned for a baby like some women do. Oh, I thought I'd have children eventually, but there were lots of other things in life that I wanted to experience first—achievements that seemed bigger and more important than someone simply calling me "Mom."

My own mother stayed at home with my sister and me until divorce drove her to find employment. She worked at the telephone company for the next twenty-five years. Mom's job always seemed dull to me. Consequently, we had a recurring conversation throughout my growing-up years.

"Mom, when you were a little girl, what did you want to be when you grew up?" I often asked, hoping I could discover what she really wanted to do for a career.

Each time, Mom hesitated before she answered. "All I ever wanted was to have children," she'd say with a smile and a faraway look in her eyes. "I just wanted to become a mother."

Try as I might, I never got a more satisfying answer out of her.

"But didn't you want an exciting career?" I chided. "Maybe being a nurse or owning your own business?"

"I only wanted to become a mother," she whispered, like she was sharing a precious secret.

As a child in the 1960s and 1970s, I failed to understand her desire. A record number of women were entering the workforce. But all my mom aspired to do was to bear children! There had to be more.

Instead of settling down after high school like Mom, I looked to hip, female role models who encouraged teenage girls, like me, to get careers and find themselves. Success was measured by a framed diploma on the wall and a professional position in the workplace. Marriage and children were for my mother's generation. There was a world of opportunity to explore. So that's what I did.

My theory was that anyone could become a mom, but not just anyone could travel to exotic destinations or have an adventuresome vocation. So, when I was twenty years old, I planned my career path and made a list of "things I want to do before I die."

Motherhood didn't make the cut.

I traveled the world, seeing sites in exotic locales like Europe, Australia, and Egypt. I worked in glamorous positions as a television news reporter, radio talk show host, and syndicated newspaper columnist.

Yes, my life might have been thrilling, but after becoming a first-time mom at forty-one, I discovered that my theory of motherhood being an ordinary experience was wrong. Nothing compares to the overwhelming love I feel for my daughter. Instead of occupying a desk chair to work after hours, I nestle in the rocking chair, coaxing two-month-old Micah to sleep.

Necklaces that can be pulled by tiny fingers, or earrings that might scratch her face remain in the jewelry box. Tailored suits that need dry cleaning have been replaced by wash-and-wear clothing that won't show stains when the baby drools or a diaper leaks. Spit-up is an everyday occurrence. But I consider it my badge of honor.

Don't get me wrong. I'm glad I went to college and discovered my heart's desire in a professional career. But along the way, I wish I'd known that my mother's preferred profession of child rearing had merit, too.

Being a mom is the best position I've ever held. Watching my daughter grow and develop is more educational than any training seminar I've attended. Seeing her smile when I look into her face is more rewarding than any business partnership I've created. Introducing Micah to new toys and seeing her enthusiasm rivals hiking in the outback or exploring the pyramids of Giza. With a baby, every day is a trip into the unknown world of discovery and delight.

And it is more challenging than any college class I ever attended. The nasal aspirator had remained a mystery to me until one evening when Micah had an excessive amount of fluid in her nose. In order for her to breathe, I had no choice but to learn how to work the bulbous device and eradicate the buildup. It took about twenty minutes of concentrated effort on both our parts, but I finally achieved success.

About that time, my husband, Michael, came in from work.

"Honey," I hollered. "You've got to see this."

He walked into the nursery.

"I finally cleared the baby's nose!" I said, proudly displaying a tissue.

Michael did not share my elation.

At that moment, I knew I had officially moved from being a woman with a baby to being a mother.

Today I'm here to break the conspiracy of silence. The role of a mother is not to be belittled but rather exalted. Being a mom is an exciting career every bit as fulfilling as any other work in the world. Motherhood is the chance to assist God in creating another human being. What could be more important than that?

These days when someone asks me about my greatest achievement, I smile and get a faraway look in my eyes. Then I share the secret: "It's being a mother."

My mom was right all along!

Stephanie Welcher Thompson

Through the Fog

Sometimes the strength of motherhood is greater than natural laws.

Barbara Kingsolver

One glance to the left confirmed what I already knew. The speedometer's needle was well beyond the last mark. Interstate lights blurred as our V-6 Oldsmobile sped north toward the Eighty-sixth Street exit. A slight shimmy rocked the car as my husband, Al, steered past what appeared to be a huge eighteen-wheeler truck.

Seeing him hunched over the steering wheel struggling to see through the balmy October fog, I realized my intense Lamaze breathing was fogging up the inside of the car, too. Suddenly when pounded with another urge to push the baby, I swallowed a yell. Our childbirth classes had not covered waking up to dagger-like contractions two weeks early.

No longer could I sit comfortably. Stretching backward, I raised myself off our car's plush navy seat. Arms trembling to support myself, I could not help but think that something was terribly wrong with our second child, who was plunging quickly into our world. Two years earlier our son's birth was complicated by a tangled umbilical cord.

As we slowed slightly to exit the bypass, the urgent need to push intensified. Sweat rolled down my nose. Gritting my teeth, I swallowed the salty flow. By now I was crying. I could feel my baby coming. Fortunately, now we were within minutes of the women's hospital.

Because it was almost 2:00 AM, my husband wisely decided to run the three stoplights leading to the hospital. Soon we had parked in the curved canopy close to the front door. Al helped me slide out of the car and gently guided my shaking body to the front automated door.

An observant receptionist summoned an orderly who rolled a wheelchair toward me. At that point, my hysteria and pain merged.

"Don't make me sit! I'm having a baby right now!" I sobbed.

Through my fog, I saw a freckle-faced nurse trot out from behind two white doors. After her quick pelvic exam with me still standing bent over in front of the receptionist, she intercepted my panic and began paging our doctor, whom we had telephoned just twenty-five minutes and twenty-three miles ago.

Immediately the small preliminary exam room behind the receptionist became crowded with an assortment of trays and scrub-gowned nurses. "We don't have much time, do we?" the groggy, unknown doctor confirmed. Later the auburn-haired nurse told us that she had awakened him from the nearby doctors' lounge. He did not even have time to put in his contact lenses.

Slowly he guided out what I was sure was a stillborn child because there was silence, no wailing like our son's first look at life. But then I felt the pulsing cord as someone laid him on my stomach. I was certain that this one was another boy, since all of my husband's older siblings had boys.

"A nice pink baby girl," a voice out of nowhere announced.

"Is she okay? Is she okay? How's her head? I want the Apgar score," I demanded. My mind could still see an umbilical cord strangling her.

"She's fine, really. You have nothing to worry about, Mrs. Long. Her Apgar rating is a nine, which is very good. Her cone-shaped head will reshape normally. She's a beautiful, healthy baby."

Al squeezed my hand and grinned.

"Now I can see," the stand-in Dr. King mentioned, now wearing his contacts. Al and I looked at each other, concerned but then focused on our chubby little girl being washed in her Plexiglas bassinet.

"You'd better camp out at our doorstep if you ever have another baby, Mrs. Long," the orderly teased as he scooted me onto a wheeled cart.

"You're determined to push me somewhere tonight, aren't you?" I said referring to our earlier wheelchair encounter. "By the way, where are we going?"

"To the delivery room, of course. You're going to pay for it so you might as well see it."

As the white doors closed behind us, our first nurse pushed the clear bassinet that held our daughter, who was quietly examining her toes. The orderly pushed me and the IV, while Al walked by my side. Then we saw our doctor. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"You know us. We couldn't wait. We had a baby," Al said to the kind, aging doctor who, in thirty years of practice, had never missed an on-call birth.

A few minutes later in the small but cozy mauve delivery and recovery room, Al and I took turns holding our seven-pound, slightly jaundiced daughter. With her chubby cheeks, orange coloring, and Columbus Day birth, her nickname soon became Pumpkin.

We wanted to telephone our family, friends, and neighbors but thought we should at least wait until dawn. For the first time since our high-speed trip, we thought about our two-year-old son, who was still semi-asleep when we left him at our neighbor's house.

Over twenty-two years have passed since our daughter's dramatic entry into this world. Our Pumpkin is now a senior in college, living ninety minutes from home. Valerie Adele is still the only granddaughter on both sides of our family. And she would readily admit that she has been spoiled throughout the years because of this status. "But maybe not enough," she would add.

From wailing over a bad hair day to the classic rolling eyes during a lecture from Mom, our daughter has provided her fair share of drama since that foggy October night. One thing is certain, though. That evening was the only time in her life that she was early for anything. And, yes, we love her anyway.

Joyce Long

My Adoption Day

Hope is the parent of faith.

Cyrus Augustus Bartol

I was devastated as I left the attorney's office with my husband.

"I guess that settles that," I said as Vince opened the car door for me, and I slipped inside. He climbed into the driver's side but kept the keys in his hand.

"Settles what? We can still do this," he said.

"There's no way I'm going to ask Bonnie for that. It's not worth me legally adopting her if we have to order a new birth certificate with my name on it. She remembers her mother. Having a new birth certificate is like asking her to pretend her mother never existed. I won't ask her to do that." I couldn't stop the tears from welling in my eyes.

I had been married to my husband for two years. We had long since been talking about my adopting his teenage daughter. Her mother had been killed in an accident several years before, when Bonnie was ten years old. I had been so excited heading into the attorney's office to start the proceedings. Now my heart plummeted, all because of a piece of paper that would have my name on it.

"I know it makes sense when you adopt a baby," I told my husband as he started the car. "It just never occurred to me that Bonnie would need a new birth certificate at her age. I won't do that to her. I won't make her choose between mothers."


Excerpted from Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrating Mothers and Daughters by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Dorothy Firman, Julie Firman, Frances Firman Salorio. Copyright © 2012 Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC. Excerpted by permission of Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents


Who Is Jack Canfield?,
Who Is Mark Victor Hansen?,
Who Is Dorothy Firman?,
Who Is Julie Firman?,
Who Is Frances Firman Salorio?,

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