Quotes About Family

I knew how much my mother loved me by her love and patience with my child.

Jack is tall and kind and don't hardly say anything. Love children. Respect his wife, Odessa, and all Odessa amazon sisters. Anything she want to take on, he right there. Never talking much, though. That's the main thing. And then I remember one time he touch me. And it felt like his fingers had eyes. Felt like he knew me all over, but he just touch my arm up near the shoulder.

I know I should be grateful, and I am. Parents are good. Sisters are good. I'm still alive. But that's not really enough, is it? That's low-bar shit. Living is more than surviving and scraping by, as if one should be grateful to have a pulse.

Privilege is being able to keep a prescribed timetable without fear of paying the rent, being in pain or becoming sick, losing health care, and taking care of your family and yourself.

Parents and children help each other to grow. In raising their children, parents are also raising themselves. Child rearing gives parents the chance to redo their own childhood and to improve on it.

Four years after my father's death, when the subject of parents came up in conversation i would relate the information in a flat, matter-of-fact tone eager to detect in my listener the flinch of grief that eluded me.

I have never read Sylvia Plath. My mother has never read Virginia Woolf. In general, we have stayed out of one another's way like this.

It's true that he didn't kill himself until I was nearly twenty. But his absence resonated retroactively, echoing back through all the time I knew him. Maybe it was the converse of the way amputees feel pain in a missing limb. He really was there all those years, a flesh-and-blood presence steaming off the wallpaper, digging up the dogwoods, polishing the finials... smelling of sawdust and sweat and designer cologne. But I ached as if he were already gone.

Although I'm good at enumerating my father's flaws, it's hard for me to sustain much anger at him. I expect this is partly because he's dead, and partly because the bar is lower for fathers than for mothers.

My mother must have bathed me hundreds of times. But it's my father rinsing me off with the purple metal cup that I remember most clearly. The suffusion of warmth as the hot water sluiced over me... ...the sudden, unbearable cold of its absence.

I grew to resent the way my father treated his furniture like children, and his children like furniture.

This is one of my difficulties now... my fear that Mom will find this memoir about her angry. Another difficulty is the fact that the story of my mother and me is unfolding even as I write it.

Whatever was going on between my parents, I suppose that my fantasy of self-sufficiency, my heavy investment in my own mind, is also a kind of narcissistic cathexis.

The idea that I caused his death by telling my parents I was a lesbian is perhaps illogical. Causality implies connection, contact of some kind. And however convincing they might be, you can't lay hands on a fictional character.

From their example, I learnt quickly to feed myself. It was a vicious circle, though. The more gratification we found in our geniuses, the more isolated we grew...And indeed, if our family was a sort of artists' colony, could it not be even more accurately described as a mildly autistic colony? Our selves were all we had.

And in a way, you could say that my father's end was my beginning...Or more precisely, that the end of his lie coincided with the beginning of my truth

Phoebe Broome] 'Well,' she said at last. 'You've now met my father. At his worst.' [Lord Vladimir] 'Being myself widely considered my family's most difficult member, I would not presume to comment.' 'That is... gentlemanly of you.

Arthur managed to speak to his grandmother [Queen Eleanor of England], demanding that she evacuate the castle with all her possessions and then go peaceably wherever she wished, for he wanted to show nothing but honour to her person. The Queen replied that she would not leave it, but if he behaved as a courtly gentlemen, he would quit this place, for he would find plenty of castles to attack other than the one she was in.

Kat embraced her, concealing her dismay as best she could. For these few months, fraught as they were, Elizabeth had been entirely hers again.

remembering what a struggle it had been to provide for them all on an income of only £50.00 per annum.

how long before hope begins to eat itself? how many flags must be waved? when does a man let go of his wife's hand in order to hold his child?

maa tujhe salaam pher lete hai nazar jis waqt bete or bahu.. ajnabi apne hi ghar me hae ban jati hai maaa..

A woman knows her children's friends, hopes, dreams, romances, secret fears, what they are thinking, how they are feeling and, usually, what mischief they are plotting. Men are vaguely aware of some short people also living in the house.

the morning, Sam is still sick, and Courtney has a headache