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Motherhood Quotes

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Motherhood Quotes

“Pope Benedict XVI wrote that liturgy should be "the rediscovering within us of true childhood, of openness to a greatness still to come, which is still unfulfilled in adult life." The child at play is an image for the kind of openness to life that adults should cultivate--that, in fact, the liturgy is trying to help people discover. In church I am seeking my true childhood.”

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Book:Motherhood: A Confession
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“Of course, my mother is her own person. Of course, she contains multitudes. She reacts in ways that surprise me, in part, simply because she isn't me. I forget this and relearn it anew because it's a lesson that doesn't, that can't stick. I knew her only as she is defined against me, in her role as my mother, so when I see her as herself, like when she gets catcalled on the street, there's dissonance. When she wants for me things that I don't want for myself--Christ, marriage, children--I am angry that she doesn't understand me, doesn't see me as my own, separate person, but that anger stems from the fact that I don't see her that way either. I want her to know what I want the same way I know it, intimately, immediately, I want her to get well because I want her to get well, and isn't that enough? My first thought, the year my brother died and my mother took to bed, was that I needed her to be mine again, a mother as I understood it. And when she didn't get up, when she lay there day in and day out, wasting away, I was reminded that I didn't know her, not wholly and completely. I would never know her.”

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Book:Transcendent Kingdom
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“Je ne crois pas qu’il y ait rien au monde de plus riant que les idées qui s’éveillent dans le cœur d’une mère à la vue du petit soulier de son enfant. Surtout si c’est le soulier de fête, des dimanches, du baptême, le soulier brodé jusque sous la semelle, un soulier avec lequel l’enfant n’a pas encore fait un pas. Ce soulier-là a tant de grâce et de petitesse, il lui est si impossible de marcher, que c’est pour la mère comme si elle voyait son enfant. Elle lui sourit, elle le baise, elle lui parle. Elle se demande s’il se peut en effet qu’un pied soit si petit ; et, l’enfant fût-il absent, il suffit du joli soulier pour lui remettre sous les yeux la douce et fragile créature. Elle croit le voir, elle le voit, tout entier, vivant, joyeux, avec ses mains délicates, sa tête ronde, ses lèvres pures, ses yeux sereins dont le blanc est bleu. Si c’est l’hiver, il est là, il rampe sur le tapis, il escalade laborieusement un tabouret, et la mère tremble qu’il n’approche du feu. Si c’est l’été, il se traîne dans la cour, dans le jardin, arrache l’herbe d’entre les pavés, regarde naïvement les grands chiens, les grands chevaux, sans peur, joue avec les coquillages, avec les fleurs, et fait gronder le jardinier qui trouve le sable dans les plates-bandes et la terre dans les allées. Tout rit, tout brille, tout joue autour de lui comme lui, jusqu’au souffle d’air et au rayon de soleil qui s’ébattent à l’envi dans les boucles follettes de ses cheveux. Le soulier montre tout cela à la mère et lui fait fondre le cœur comme le feu une cire.”

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Book:Notre-Dame de Paris
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“As I took my children sledding this morning, I watched them fly down the hill - aiming for the jump and flying in the air. Getting the wind knocked out of them as they landed hard then climbing up to do it again - relentless and brave. I took a moment to be happy they are young and innocent and appreciate the simple thrill of going fast down a hill. I pushed my own nervous inclination aside and instead of saying "Be careful!" I said "Aim Straight!" Then I let them go down the jump again and again because in this world, we need to be relentless and brave and I need to be sure they don't unlearn it.”

ChildrenChildhoodBraveParentingMotherhoodRelentlessSimple JoysSleddingAim Straight
Author:Elizabeth Tambascio
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“COME HOME, TENAR! COME HOME!” In the deep valley, in the twilight, the apple trees were on the eve of blossoming; here and there among the shadowed boughs one flower had opened early, rose and white, like a faint star. Down the orchard aisles, in the thick, new, wet grass, the little girl ran for the joy of running; hearing the call she did not come at once, but made a long circle before she turned her face toward home. The mother waiting in the doorway of the hut, with the firelight behind her, watched the tiny figure running and bobbing like a bit of thistledown blown over the darkening grass beneath the trees.”

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Book:The Tombs of Atuan
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“He'd unbuttoned his shirt so the night breeze would soothe him; his body always ran too hot. The blood. Too hot. The large, gold crucifix on his neck, dangling to his thick chest hairs, caught there, and winked in the candlelight. His childhood prayers. For food. Warmth. His beloved mother. That the cruelty of his father. Stop. No more. Beatings. He never. Stopped. Beating her. Mama. [...] Pompeii remembered - like tuning into a clear TV channel - his mother's gentle face. Her fingertips on his boy's face, calming him to sleep. The sound of his father's drunken entrance, when she would hold her breath, stop stroking his boy face.”

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Book:Song of the Golden Scorpion
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“If your child is constantly interrupting or doing other things to get your attention, he is not getting enough communication of the right kind. Just the fact that you are in the house with him all day does not mean that you are necessarily devoting any time to communication of his choice.”

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Book:Miracles for Breakfast: A Startling New Approach to Raising Children
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“On the street, cars hurtled toward their destinations in a symphony of sound. Trees lined the pavement in a powerful show of survival: here they stood in this urban landscape, long-limbed and capable. And green, so green, sunlight pierced through their leaves and marked the concrete with dappled grays. I made my way home to my family, one among a million travelers crossing the city’s great canvas in quick strokes. Everywhere there were colors by the thousands—tint upon tint, shade after shade—of everything the spectrum of beauty satisfied. Everywhere, there were signs of the renewal and restoration of life.”

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Book:The Kindness of Terrible People and Other Stories
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“They'll tell you who they think you should be they'll even try to manipulate you into believing it but let me tell you something son, if I listened to who I was supposed to be - this, everything we are and do wouldn't be in existence. Be a leader, find yourself and make a life with it. Those who judge you and try to force the patterns of their beliefs onto you are envious they haven't the strength in themselves to do the same.”

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Author:Nikki Rowe
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“((من همواره دلباخته ش شادکامی بوده ام. وقتی بچه بودم، بعضی روزها چنان لبریز می شدم که بی اختیار بازوان را از هم می گشودم و پا به دویدن می گذاشتم و دلم می خواست نعره بزنم، بس است: بس است! بس است! نمی توانم این همه شادی را برای خودم نگاه دارم. باید آن را با دیگری قسمت کنم!))”

HappinessMotherhoodIdentify And OppressionWar And Survivalجنگ و بقاءهویت و سرکوبPhilsophical Reflectionتاملات فلسفیشادکامیمادری
Book:History
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“Only mothers can conceive a child. Only mothers can physically give birth to a child. Only mothers can breast feed. Everyone recognizes the uniqueness of motherhood. Everyone knows that mothers are irreplaceable. But as a student of nature, I know that everything is in balance. So it is also true that fathers are superior to mothers in some ways and there are unique ways that fathers can love children and lead children that mothers simply are not capable of. And ultimately, everything balances out - mothers and fathers are equally important to children.”

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Author:Hendrith Vanlon Smith Jr, CEO of Mayflower-Plymouth
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“Close your eyes and stare into the dark. My father's advice when I couldn't sleep as a little girl. He wouldn't want me to do that now but I've set my mind to the task regardless. I'm staring beyond my closed eyelids. Though I lie still on the ground, I feel perched at the highest point I could possibly be; clutching at a star in the night sky with my legs dangling above cold black nothingness. I take one last look at my fingers wrapped around the light and let go. Down I go, falling, then floating, and, falling again, I wait for the land of my life. I know now, as I knew as that little girl fighting sleep, that behind her gauzed screen of shut-eye, lies colour. It taunts me, dares me to open my eyes and lose sleep. Flashes of red and amber, yellow and white speckle my darkness. I refuse to open them. I rebel and I squeeze my eyelids together tighter to block out the grains of light, mere distractions that keep us awake but a sign that there's life beyond. But there's no life in me. None that I can feel, from where I lie at the bottom of the staircase. My heart beats quicker now, the lone fighter left standing in the ring, a red boxing glove pumping victoriously into the air, refusing to give up. It's the only part of me that cares, the only part that ever cared. It fights to pump the blood around to heal, to replace what I'm losing. But it's all leaving my body as quickly as it's sent; forming a deep black ocean of its own around me where I've fallen. Rushing, rushing, rushing. We are always rushing. Never have enough time here, always trying to make our way there. Need to have left here five minutes ago, need to be there now. The phone rings again and I acknowledge the irony. I could have taken my time and answered it now. Now, not then. I could have taken all the time in the world on each of those steps. But we're always rushing. All, but my heart. That slows now. I don't mind so much. I place my hand on my belly. If my child is gone, and I suspect this is so, I'll join it there. There.....where? Wherever. It; a heartless word. He or she so young; who it was to become, still a question. But there, I will mother it. There, not here. I'll tell it; I'm sorry, sweetheart, I'm sorry I ruined your chances - our chances of a life together.But close your eyes and stare into the darkness now, like Mummy is doing, and we'll find our way together. There's a noise in the room and I feel a presence. 'Oh God, Joyce, oh God. Can you hear me, love? Oh God. Oh God, please no, Hold on love, I'm here. Dad is here.' I don't want to hold on and I feel like telling him so. I hear myself groan, an animal-like whimper and it shocks me, scares me. I have a plan, I want to tell him. I want to go, only then can I be with my baby. Then, not now. He's stopped me from falling but I haven't landed yet. Instead he helps me balance on nothing, hover while I'm forced to make the decision. I want to keep falling but he's calling the ambulance and he's gripping my hand with such ferocity it's as though I'm all he has. He's brushing the hair from my forehead and weeping loudly. I've never heard him weep. Not even when Mum died. He clings to my hand with all of his strength I never knew his old body had and I remember that I am all he has and that he, once again just like before, is my whole world. The blood continues to rush through me. Rushing, rushing, rushing. We are always rushing. Maybe I'm rushing again. Maybe it's not my time to go. I feel the rough skin of old hands squeezing mine, and their intensity and their familiarity force me to open my eyes. Lights fills them and I glimpse his face, a look I never want to see again. He clings to his baby. I know I lost mind; I can't let him lose his. In making my decision I already begin to grieve. I've landed now, the land of my life. And still my heart pumps on. Even when broken it still works.”

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Book:Thanks for the Memories
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“Florence, listen to me carefully. He squeezed her hand. Take whatever that agent offers you. Give him what he wants, and don’t ask too many questions. Get yourself an exit visa as soon as you can. Then leave! Disappear. Forget this wretched place”

AmericaRomanceMotherPoliticsFamilyFeminismMotherhoodLove StoryCommunismSovietSoviet UnionMoscowSoviet RussiaDoctor ZhivagoBased On Real EventsBased On A True StorySoviet Literature20th Century RussiaPolitical DramaBrookyln
Author:Sana Krasikov
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“Our communists aren’t like your communists. In New York they’re always on the street demonstrating, but their demands are absurd. Slash rents! Free groceries and electricity for the poor! They demand that landlords open up their vacant apartments to house the unemployed. They even demand that the Communist Party distribute unemployment relief instead of the Labor Department. They might as well demand cake and champagne!”

AmericaRomanceMotherPoliticsFamilyFeminismMotherhoodLove StoryCommunismSovietSoviet UnionMoscowSoviet RussiaPolitical ThrillerDoctor ZhivagoBased On Real EventsBased On A True StorySoviet Literature20th Century RussiaBrookyln
Author:Sana Krasikov
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“Moscow appeared to her as an Asiatic sprawl of twisting streets, wooden shanties, and horse cabs. But already another Moscow was rising up through the chaos of the first. Streets built to accommodate donkey tracks have been torn open and replaced with boulevards broader than two or three Park Avenues. On the sidewalks, pedestrians were being detoured onto planks around enormous construction pits. A smell of sawdust and metal filings hung in the air”

AmericaRomanceMotherPoliticsFamilyFeminismMotherhoodLove StoryCommunismSovietSoviet UnionMoscowSoviet RussiaDoctor ZhivagoBased On Real EventsBased On A True StorySoviet Literature20th Century RussiaPolitical DramaBrookyln
Author:Sana Krasikov
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“The Bolshevik leaders perched atop the Mausoleum were no easier to tell apart than chess pawns. But Florence too was certain that she could recognise the twinkling eyes of Joseph Stalin, which looked down at her each workday from the oil painting above Timofeyev’s desk”

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Author:Sana Krasikov
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“Sunset was just then settling over Red Square. There seemed some hidden vision to be gleaned. A message about man’s chaotic spirit and his sombre dignity. His dignity and his power. His power and his purpose. She was sure that there was some thread there, but the burden of decoding it made her feel too tired”

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Book:The Patriots
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“Who is she, after all? Not a member of the Party. Not even a Russian...What can she do, really, but watch the ginger-haired sacrificial lamb get slaughtered? One wrong move and Florence herself might be on the chopping block herself”

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Book:The Patriots
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“The immediate difficulty, Florence realised while riding the high rail back to Brooklyn, was how to break the news to her parents, even if she could convince them that being a chaperone to six foreign men was a legitimate occupation for a twenty-three-year-old girl. What choice did she have? A paycheck could not win a girl’s independence”

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Author:Sana Krasikov
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“Sergey described the mighty furnaces and plants rising up from the steppes. “How far we’ve come. How much work there is still to do!” She would have to see it herself one day, with her own eyes. Florence reread the last line with a turbulent flip in her stomach. Was this an invitation?”

AmericaRomanceMotherPoliticsFamilyFeminismMotherhoodLove StoryCommunismSovietSoviet UnionMoscowSoviet RussiaDoctor ZhivagoBased On Real EventsBased On A True StorySoviet Literature20th Century RussiaPolitical DramaBrookyln
Author:Sana Krasikov
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