Quotes About Motherhood

be happy at last. But maybe I wasn't meant to be happy. Or to be a mother. Maybe the universe was just teasing me, letting me float briefly up to the clouds to enjoy the view from there, only to slam me back down to earth and rub my face in the dirt.

set the iPod in the dock and gently shift my newborn baby boy in my arms so that his cheek rests on my shoulder. When the music starts to play, I dance slowly around the living room, rocking him to and fro. I feel such joy, I begin to wonder if I've died and gone to heaven.

contemplated suicide. Part of the reason was because I didn't want to go on living without my sweet baby boy. I missed him terribly and my guilt was beyond excruciating. It was the worst kind of torture imaginable. I just wanted to end my suffering.

I think of my son. I remember him as a baby in my arms—the sweet smell of his soft head beneath my lips when I kissed him good night before setting him down in his crib.

Once upon a time, I'd thought demon-hunting was hard. But that was before I'd become a mom. Trust me. In comparison to parenting, stalking and killing demons is a piece of cake.

That's the bittersweet part of being a mom. You slather on all that love and attention so that your kids will grow up strong, confident, and self-sufficient. And if you've done your job right, you've raised grown-ups who can go off and manage just fine without you.

when he thought of the word mercy, it was the Yiddish word that came to his mind: rachmones, whose root was rechem, the Hebrew word for womb. Rachmones: a compassion as deep and as undeniable as what a mother felt for her child.

But if you'd told him, wouldn't it confirm what you most wanted to hide? That there was something wrong with you? Not that you were crazy, maybe. You knew you weren't your mother. But what might happen once the baby was born? New mothers lost it all the time. Ordinary ones, who didn't carry what you carried.

Women are weak, but mothers are strong.

One day as I am holding baby and feeding her, I realize that this is exactly the state of mind and heart that so many male writers from Thomas Mann to James Joyce describe with yearning—the mystery of an epiphany, the sense of oceanic oneness, the great yes

the experience of motherhood loses nearly everything in its translation to the outside world. In motherhood a woman exchanges her public significance for a range of private meanings, and like sounds outside a certain range they can be very difficult for other people to identify.

I'd just as soon stay home and raise babies.

But, based on my friendship with Evie as young mothers, I started going on freedom rides in 1966.

You hear mothers say all the time that they would die for their children, but my mom never said shit like that. She didn't have to. When it came to my brother, it was written across her face in 112-point Tupac Gothic.

There were a lot of these middle-aged single types in the neighborhood, shipwrecked by every kind of catastrophe, but she was one of the few who didn't have children, who lived alone, who was still kinda young. Something must have happened, your mother speculated. In her mind, a woman with no child could be explained only by vast untrammelled calamity. Maybe she just doesn't like children. Nobody likes children, your mother assured you. That doesn't mean you don't have them.

Yes, the wildness was in me, yes it kept my heart beating fast all the long day, yes it danced around me while I walked down the street, yes it let me look boys straight in the face when they stared at me, yes it turned my laugh from a cough into a long wild fever, but I was still scared. How could I not be? I was my mother's daughter. Her hold on me stronger than love.

No matter what the fuck he pulled-and my brother pulled a lot of shit-she was always a hundred percent on his side, as only a Latin mom can be with her querido oldest hijo. If he'd come home one day an said, Hey, Ma, I exterminated half the planet, I´m sure she would have defended his ass: Well, hijo, we were overpopulated.

Mami must have caught me studying her because she stopped what she was doing and gave me a smile, maybe her first one of the night. Suddenly I wanted to go over and hug her, for no other reason than I loved her.

she has a four-year-old named Justin. She shows you pictures; kid looks like he'll be dropping an album if she's not careful.

This is how you treat your mother? she cried. And if I could have I would have broken the entire length of my life across her face, but instead I screamed back, And this is how you treat your daughter?

Before there was an American Story, before Paterson spread before Oscar and Lola like a dream, or the trumpets from the Island of our eviction had even sounded, there was their mother, Hypatia Belicia Cabral: a girl so tall your leg bones ached just looking at her, so dark it was as if the Creatrix had, in her making, blinked.

the man's name. And the truth was, she didn't mind any of it, not really: not the being pregnant, which was easy right until the end, nor the delivery itself, which was bad but fast, nor, especially

I saw Mom the way she had been and could have been and was becoming in these days free of Dad.

Mom doing things for herself was the best souvenir we could have brought back from China.