Quotes About Motherhood

I had such a great mom and I know that I'd never be that mom. I wouldn't want to bring a child into this world unless I could be.

I know that I'm getting the real deal with my mom. I know that she's telling it like it is. She's proud of me when I've earned it and she's disappointed in me when I've earn that. She's really my spectrum on where I am as a person.

Raising a small child as a woman while travelling 10 months out of the year would, I believe, be something I would not be able or even want to do, although with the amazing example of Leila, I am no longer so sure.

I don't know that I have any role models now that are fixed. Definitely my mom - she's the coolest. She's worked really hard her whole life and I just think she's got a great attitude. Moms just know so much it's so silly.

He thought it was funny that she could hack a bloodthirsty demon to death, but something as natural as having a baby made her quake. Not that Kynan blamed her. He'd happily choose taking a bullet to the gut over squeezing a bowling ball out of his ass. Women were amazing.

Babies are bits of stardust, blown from the hand of God. Lucky the woman who knows the pangs of birth, for she has held a star.

I know first-hand the challenges that come with being an on-the-go mom, and I am constantly looking for great products that fit into my busy schedule. I've tried every goop and elixir known to man.

Emily Procter getting pregnant changed the show for me. I got so much more involved, which was so much fun! Now I feel like an action figure Barbie.

Any mom who tells you that she does it effortlessly is not telling the truth.

My kid, her life. I want for her what she wants for herself.

The woman is the fiber of the nation. She is the producer of life. A nation is only as good as its women." —MUHAMMAD ALI

Las madres solemos preguntar angustiadas cuándo es el momento propicio para el destete. Cuando las madres preguntamos este tipo de cosas, ya nos hemos perdido de nosotras mismas. Hemos perdido nuestra ecología personal y la confianza en nuestro saber intuitivo. Y si las madres nos perdemos, el mundo entero está perdido.

With only hook latches for locks, Louise took to sitting by the front door on an apple box with a rolling pin in her hand, ready to brain any prowlers who might threaten her children.

Maybe I stepped into the skin my mother left behind, and became the girl my mother had been, the one she still wanted to be. Maybe I was wearing her youth now like an airy scarf, an accessory, all bright nerves and sticky pearls, and maybe that's why she spent so much time staring at me with that wistful look in her eyes. I was wearing something of hers, something she wanted back. It was written all over her face.

Because whenever a woman kills her child, every other mother—at least, every one who's honest with herself—has a flash of sympathy. Not empathy. They don't want to have done it, cannot imagine doing it. But they know.

It's impossible to imagine her in thrall to anything, anyone. She calls the shots even while pretending not to. Even in motherhood, she has shown this steely control.

Being a mother was like being trapped in the first fifteen minutes of a horror film. Everything was fine, lovely. But there was this persistent sense of dread.

The feeling of your baby taking nourishment from your body for the first time is amazing, and it remains the most touching moment of my life.

We can see the tension here. The anticipating self gets to don the identity of "cool mom who is going to take her kids ice skating." The remembering self gets to enjoy the memory. It is the experiencing self who actually has to get up off the couch, get misdirected by her GPS to the bus circle above the rink parking lot, and fumble with the change machine to score quarters for her shoe locker rental. This can seem like an unfair division of labor.

I knew that she was trying to save her little girl, but sometimes mothers with the best intentions kill their daughters all the same.

I've buried a husband, I've raised two daughters. I've made my coffee.

Does not a child recognize her own mother?

I often get a particular wrinkled-nose look from Mom: mild revulsion mixed with fondness, as if she can't quite believe she made me, this large, sometimes stinky, always untidy boy who double dips and chugs orange juice out of the carton even though she begs me not to.

Apparently, this girl is made from me. She comes from me. She has half my genes, half my toxins, half my talents, she is in me. What of me will she shed, what will she find herself tacked to?