Quotes About Motherhood

Hold thy peace, dear little Pearl! whispered her mother. We must not always talk in the market-place of what happens to us in the forest.

Hester bade little Pearl run down to the margin of the water, and play with the shells and tangled sea-weed, until she should have talked awhile with yonder gatherer of herbs.

Gott hat mir das Kind gegeben!, schrie sie. Er gab es mir als Ausgleich für alles, was ihr mir genommen habt! Sie ist meine Freude!- sie ist auch meine Qual! Pearl hält mich in diesem Leben. Und Pearl bestraft mich. Seht ihr nicht, sie ist der Scharlachbuchstabe, imstande nur, geliebt zu werden, und darum millionenfach ausgestattet mit der Macht, mich für meine Sünden zu bestrafen. Ihr werdet sie mir nicht nehmen! Eher sterbe ich!

I will not speak! answered Hester, turning pale as death, but responding to this voice, which she too surely recognized. And my child must seek a heavenly father; she shall never know an earthly one!

a subsistence, of the plainest and most ascetic description for herself, and a simple abundance for her child.

the child finally announced that she had not been made at all, but had been plucked by her mother off the bush of wild roses, that grew by the prison-door.

I know what to think when a young girl shivers by a warm hearth and complains of lonesomeness at her mother's side. Shall I put these feelings into words?

Could it be true? She clutched the child so fiercely to her breast, that it sent forth a cry; she turned her eyes downward at the scarlet letter, and even touched it with her finger, to assure herself that the infant and the shame were real. Yes! — these were her realities, — all else had vanished!

The way I see it, it's got nothing to do with all of that. It has to do with love...A person don't got a soul until that person is loved. If a mother loves her baby-- wants her baby--it's got a soul from the moment she knows it's there. The moment you're loved, that's when you got your soul. --Diego

In a perfect world mothers would all want their babies, and strangers would open up their homes to the unloved. In a perfect world everthing would be either black or white, right or wrong, and everyone would know the difference. But this isn't a perfect world. The problem is people who think it is.

First rule of motherhood, dearie: men are screw-ups. Learn it now and you'll be a whole lot happier.

A person don't got a soul until that person is loved. If a mother loves her baby--wants her baby--it's got a soul from the moment she knows it's there. The moment you're loved, that's when you got your soul.

And he will love them unconditionally . . . if he can just get past the girls he chose to be their mothers.

Ah! ¡no haber parido todo un nudo de víboras, Antes que amamantar esta irrisión! ¡Maldita sea la noche de placeres efímeros En que mi vientre concibió mi expiación!

Luce, sitting near the back, all of this new to her, likes to believe her children are nothing like a pair of copperheads amid a field of sweet brown mice.

A mother's love— Fuck love, Amber snarls, she wants power.

My mother is European and expresses her love through food and cuddling. She wasn't the type of mother who would make it to school plays or soccer games, but if you wanted to stay at home sick, she was your girl. Whenever you'd go up to her room to cuddle with her, she'd pull out a Kit Kat or Snickers bar from her night table and look at you with dancing eyes.

It's true that a child belongs to its father. But when a father beats his child, it seeks sympathy in its mother's hut. A man belongs to his fatherland when things are good and life is sweet. But when there is sorrow and bitterness he finds refuge in his motherland. Your mother is there to protect you. She is buried there. And that is why we say that mother is supreme.

As she stood gazing at the circular darkness which has swallowed them, tears gushed from her eyes, and she swore within her that if she heard Ezinma cry she would rush into the cave to defend her against all the gods in the world. She would die with her.

She looked up at him. She could remember holding him on her lap, reading a story, kneeling down beside him. Then came the years she spent on her knees because she was concerned how he might turn out. Those years were long gone.

All her questions, all the fatigue and nausea and swelling and pain, vanished the moment she held her son.

The pain in my body could not match the pain her cry surfaced in my heart. They cleaned her, weighed her, wrapped her, and whisked her away. And it was then that I realized the much-greater pain is not in giving birth but in releasing your own child.

Our daughter is a miracle baby, and having time with her and my sons means everything to me - they're why I kept fighting.

I was conceived after doctors told my mother she'd never have children. I'm a miracle - we all are.