Quotes About Motherhood

My Mothers Gift of Courage To Me Were Both Large and Small.

She was our mother and belonged to us. She was never mentioned to anyone because we simply didn't have enough of her to share.

You've been a hard worker—white, black, Asian, and Latino women ship out of the San Francisco port because of you. You have been a shipfitter, a nurse, a real estate broker, and a barber. Many men and—if my memory serves me right—a few women risked their lives to love you. You were a terrible mother of small children, but there has never been anyone greater than you as a mother of a young adult.

My mother said her friends told her that I had once been seen jumping on the street with my son and playing as if I were a child. She said, "No, she was not playing. She was just being a good mother.

Knowing Momma, I knew that I never knew Momma.

I was young, yes, unmarried, yes - but I was a mother, and that placed me nearer to the people.

The describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power. Or the climbing, falling colors of a rainbow.

I will look after you and I will look after anybody you say needs to be looked after, any way you say. I am here. I brought my whole self to you. I am your mother." (1986)

You're my daughter. Don't take tea for the fever. You are your own woman.

After a short labor, and without too much pain (I decided that the pain of delivery was overrated), my son was born.

Simply holding on to that tangible link between mother and daughter. A bond like no other. Irreplaceable. Unwavering. Old as time itself. There truly was nothing like the love of a mother. Unconditional. Solid. Indefinable and limitless. Capable of surviving anything. Able to triumph over the impossible.

Damn shame when grown men are reduced to a bunch of pussies by their mother.

Coming, baby,' Shana murmured. She tossed back the covers, brushed her sleep-tangled hair from her face, and slogged out of the bedroom. The hardwood floor creaked beneath her bare feet. Jaydee's cries grew clearer.

We are all meant to be mothers of God...for God is always needing to be born.

What Mal wanted, more than anything, was to be just like her mother. Exactly like her.

It was true what they said about mothers and sons: it was a special bond, a mutual admiration society.

She looked not like a mother in her thirties, but like the girl he had fallen in love with, and he loved her still. She would always be that girl to him, no matter what happened. That was love, after all, the ability to see one's youthful beloved in the aging stranger with her face. He would always love her, he thought. He was made to love her.

When anyone thinks a woman who serves gives 'cause that's what mothers or real women do, they deny her full humanity and thus fail to see the generosity inherent in her acts.

When anyone thinks a woman who serves 'gives 'cause that's what mothers or real women do,' they deny her full humanity and thus fail to see the generosity inherent in her acts.

Billy offers small hums of agreement and waits for the momma-logue to wind down.

Mothers were sacred. Mothers were not expected to be pretty.

A woman raises her bairns, and then no matter how much she loves them, she must let them go on to live their own lives.

I think that love is more like a light that you carry. At first childish happiness keeps it lighted and after that romance. Then motherhood lights it and then duty . . . and maybe after that sorrow. You wouldn't think that sorrow could be a light, would you, dearie? But it can. And then after that, service lights it. Yes. . . . I think that is what love is to a woman . . . a lantern in her hand.

There is no division nor subtraction in the heart-arithmetic of a good mother. There are only addition and multiplication.