Quotes About Mother

Why don't you picture pushing away all your defences and just sit with the question 'Why am I still nice to my mother?' And then see what floats into your mind.

I explained to Madeline that her mother had a common disorder called trichotillomania, which is the compulsive urge to pull out (and, in some cases, eat) one's own hair. It leads to noticeable hair loss, distress, and social or functional impairment. An impulse-control disorder, it's often chronic and difficult to treat.

So, I guess people figure it's not as hard to lose your mother when you never got along anyway. But they're wrong. They're dead wrong. It's always hard to lose your mother. Always. If you loved her, if you hated her. If she smothered you, if she ignored you. It doesn't matter. She's your mother. Your mother. That's just a very tough bond to break.

Well, you know how it is. We either grow up to be our mother or we make a solemn vow to the universe to be her polar opposite. Doesn't work every minute of every day, though.

That was the problem with my mother. I could never fully get her voice out of my head.

The 'J' is for 'Jackie,' " he said. "But why don't you just call her 'Mom'?" "Oh. So I don't get her mixed up with my other mom. P-Mom. The 'P' is for 'Paula.

We either grow up to be our mother or we make a solemn vow to the universe to be her polar opposite. Doesn't work every minute of every day, though.

Those who haven't been in school for years may have forgotten the piercing and utter humiliation of almost anything your mother does there. Even if it's marginally acceptable by adult standards. I haven't been in school for years. University and graduate school not counting. And yet I remember.

Will Hilt to hand yet be restored? Take me up, thy mother's sword.

Orpheus asks his mother. She tells him the obvious: the entrance to hell is always in your own house, silly billy.

September had only had coffee once, when her Aunt Margaret had snuck her a sip while her mother wasn't looking. It tasted bitter, but wild and strange. She rather wanted to taste it again.

Let us say I am something like a witch, and something like a jester, and something like a mother.

Food, love, mother and career: the four basic guilt groups.

The relationship between Cathy and Mom in the strip is the one relationship drawn from real life that I have proudly never even tried to disguise.

I'm lucky that my real-life Mom has both a great sense of humor about herself and an amazing ability to slip into complete denial if the subject matter gets a little too close to home.

Kids are cute, babies are cute, puppies are cute. The little things are cute. See, nature did this on purpose so that we would want to take care of our young. Made them cute. Tricked us. Then gradually they get older and older, until one day your mother sits you down and says, "You know, I think you're ugly enough to get your own apartment."

My mother is a typical Jewish mother. They sent her home from jury duty, she insisted she was guilty.

Almost daily, my mother demanded gratitude from me. Almost weekly, my mother said we moved here so I wouldn't have to suffer. Then she asked, "Why do you make yourself suffer?

The word for mother, umm, is the root of the words for "source, nation, mercy, first principle, rich harvest; stupid, illiterate, parasite, weak of character, without opinion." In

She felt a little clandestine, as if she were ten years old again, sneaking a dead rat past her mother so she could articulate a Rattus norvegicus domestica for her bedroom display.

Freud is the father of psychoanalysis. It has no mother.

It is only the city dweller spending his weekends in the country who goes into raptures about nature; the farmer breathes in it. It is only the uncreative critic who is given to much talking about art. For the artist himself, his art is speech sufficient. It is only a motherless time that cries out for a mother, and a deeply unmotherly age that can point to the mother as a demand of the time, for it is precisely the mother who is timeless, the same in all epochs and among all peoples.

The United States is just now the oldest country in the world, there always is an oldest country and she is it, it is she who is the mother of the twentieth century civilization. She began to feel herself as it just after the Civil War. And so it is a country the right age to have been born in and the wrong age to live in.

Grief howls in a suburban street, wild as Demeter, who put the world to sleep, a mother in perpetual winter weeps for Persephone, her stolen child.