Quotes About Motherhood

Ammu watched over them fiercely. Her watchfulness stretched her, made her taut and tense. She was quick to reprimand her children, but even quicker to take offense on their behalf.

The infinite tenderness of motherhood and the reckless rage of a suicide bomber. It was this that grew inside her, and eventually led her to love by night the man her children loved

An unmixable mix. The infinite tenderness of motherhood and the reckless rage of a suicide bomber.

She was buried right next to her mother, Begum Arifa Yeswi. Mother and daughter died by the same bullet. It entered Miss Jebeen's head through her left temple and came to rest in her mother's heart. In the last photograph of her, the bullet wound looked like a cheerful summer rose arranged just above her left ear. A few petals had fallen on her kaffan, the white shroud she was wrapped in before she was laid to rest.

Human birth...is a solution to an evolutionary problem: how a mammal can walk upright, which requires a small, fixed, bony pelvis, and also possess a large brain, which entails a baby whose head is too big to fit through that small pelvis...in a sense, all human mothers give birth prematurely. Other mammals are born mature enough to walk and seek food within hours; our newborns are small and helpless for months.

Then comes what still seems surreal to me. You reach in, and instead of finding a tumor or some other abnormality, as surgeons usually do when we go into someone's belly, you find five tiny wiggling toes, a knee, a whole leg. And suddenly you realize you have a new human being struggling in your hands. You almost forget the mother on the table.

Some problems we share as women, some we do not. You fear your children will grow up to join the patriarchy and testify against you; we fear our children will be dragged from a car and shot down in the street, and you will turn your backs on the reasons they are dying.

Some problems we share as women, some we do not. You hear your children will grow up to join the patriarchy and testify against you, we fear our children will be dragged from a car and shot down in the street, and you will turn your backs upon the reasons they are dying.

In the plane coming to Tashkent, I sat with the three other African women and we exchanged chitchat for 5 1/2 hours about out respective children, about our ex-old men, all very, very heterocetera.

She saw clearly that she could both love her son fiercely and let him go. In fact, for their mutual survival, she had no choice but to let him go, to teach him that she "did not exist to do his feeling for him."5

The image of the Angolan woman with a baby on one arm and a gun in the other is neither romantic nor fanciful

Some problems we share as women, some we do not. You fear your children will grow up to join the patriarchy and testify against you, we fear our children will be dragged from a car and shot down in the street, and you will turn your backs upon the reasons they are dying.

This house is full of women who all want to have their say about my child.

NURSE. There, there, there. A father has something besides his child, but a mother has nothing but her child. CAPTAIN.

Oh, it is sweet to sleep against a woman's breast, a mother's, or a mistress's, but the mother's is sweetest. LAURA.

Other people sound flat to my ear; their words just hang in the air. But when my mother says something, the ends curl.

I think it's worth trying to be a mother who delights in who her children are, in their knock-knock jokes and earnest questions. A mother who spends less time obsessing about what will happen, or what has happened, and more time reveling in what is.

Yes, there are women who report feeling madly in love with their babies the second they lay eyes on them. These women are either very lucky or lying or needy, and I don't trust them.

There was something about seeing my daughter riding her little Radio Flyer tricycle for the first time that made me want to stuff her back in my womb and refuse to let her ever leave the safety of my body again—but not before filling an entire digital memory card with pictures.

Ultimately, however, whether it is mother, wife, or child who keeps a man going, or whether a woman focuses her self-sacrifice on parent, husband, or child, the simultaneous connection and contrast between nurturing within the family and competition outside it leads to a profound sense of loneliness.

Don't get me wrong. Being a mom is no picnic. Raising the kids is the mother's responsibility. It's a thankless, solitary job, like sheriff or Pope.

A mother needs to be in the home even when the kids aren't. A messy house sends a coded message to children: "I'm not loveable. Otherwise Mother would dust.

So, a word to all you Femin-Idi-Amins: Stop "liberating" moms by trying to make them join the workforce. They're already doing the job that God put them here to do: Everything.

the majority of any abortion provider's patients were mothers already with several children.