#mother

There is a distinct difference between the ability to create life and the innate need to protect it; to cherish it. The life you've created is the one being you love most in the universe, and that intense love evolves into something that goes far beyond a sense of duty. It is instinct; pure and undeniable. As a direct result, one must neglect all else to preserve it. Even those we have claimed to love before. ↗

— Jamie McGuire

#mothers #life

How did your mother die?” asked Delk. “Car accident,” Katie replied, gazing out over the water. “She’d been to mass. A tire blew on the way home, and she was gone. I was nineteen, Pather’s age, when it happened. My brother was only eleven.” She paused. “I do know what you’re going through.” Katie looked at her. “Pather told you?” Katie nodded. Delk was glad Pather had told his sister; she was relieved not to have to tell the story again. “Does it ever . . . you know . . . get any better?” Katie shrugged her narrow shoulders and smiled. “In some ways it does, but it’s a bit like running a long race with a rock in your shoe. You get used to it, but it always hurts a little. ↗

— Suzanne Supplee

#delk #family #katie #mother #when-irish-guys-are-smiling

Like any working mother I find it hard to have a social life. But my kids are so well adjusted. There isn't a brat bone in their body so I haven't done anything that bad. ↗

— Ruby Wax

#any #anything #bad #body #bone

I'm a hopeless mother; a hopeless wife; I have to try harder. I'm just a pathetic case history, really. ↗

— Siobhan Fahey

#harder #history #hopeless #i #just

My father died when I was young and I was raised by my grandmother, Emma Klonjlaleh Brown. We could afford to eat chicken just once a year, on Christmas. ↗

— George Weah

#brown #chicken #christmas #could #died

There's a lot more to being a woman than being a mother, but there's a hell of a lot more to being a mother than most people suspect. ↗

— Roseanne Barr

#hell #lot #more #most #mother

She had had her momentary flowering, a year, perhaps, of wildrose beauty, and then she had suddenly swollen like a fertilized fruit and grown hard and red and coarse, and then her life had been laundering, scrubbing, laundering, first for children, then for grandchildren, over thirty years. At the end of it she was still singing. ↗

— George Orwell

#joy #motherhood #singing #beauty

My mother is, my father certainly was. They were kind of the local intelligentsia in the town where I grew up. ↗

— Alison Bechdel

#father #grew #i #intelligentsia #kind

The mother's heart is the child's schoolroom. ↗

— Henry Ward Beecher

#child #heart #mother #schoolroom

What a mother sings to the cradle goes all the way down to the coffin. ↗

— Henry Ward Beecher

#cradle #down #goes #mother #sings