Quotes About Mother-daughter

What distinguished my life from my brother's is that my mother didn't like me. When I became a woman, I seemed to repel her.

One of the first major storylines that 'All My Children' featured was Erica Kane, a rebellious daughter, and her mother, sort of a matriarchal type, who was trying to guide her daughter to a safer place.

I grew up with just my mom. She and I were like best friends. She's a very independent woman and I admire that about her. In my life, I've tried to be like that. To be okay with being on my own and being independent.

My mum always had an amazing selection of make-up, which I obviously applied badly, on a regular basis.

When I was 13 years old, my mom had me start getting facials in my hometown of Los Angeles.

I have such a great relationship with my mom that I'm so excited to, hopefully, have that same relationship with my daughter.

I always feel sad for the girl that i was, because it never occurred to me that my mother might comfort me.

Tears ran down my mother's cheeks and dripped loudly onto the leather purse she held in her lap. The woman next to her patted her hand. I slipped my notepad from my jacket pocket and began scribbling notes to one side until my mother slapped her hand on mine and hissed, "You are being disrespectful and embarrassing. Stop or I will make you leave." I quit writing but kept the pad out, feeling stabbingly defiant. But still blushing.

I always feel sad for the girl that I was, because it never occurred to me that my mother might comfort me. She has never told me she loved me, and I never assumed she did. She tended to me. She administrated me. Oh, yes, and one time she bought me lotion with vitamin E.

As a child, I don't remember ever telling Adora my favorite color, or what I'd like to name my daughter when I grew up. I don't think she ever knew my favorite dish, and I certainly never padded down to her room in the early-morning hours, teary from nightmares. I always feel sad for the girl that I was, because it never occurred to me that my mother might comfort me. She has never told me she loved me, and I never assumed she did.

I'll take those for my room, Momma. They look fine to me." "They're not." "I don't mind." "Camille, I was just looking at them, and they're not good blooms." She dropped the pliers to the ground, began tugging at a stem. "But they're fine for me. For my room." "Oh, now look what you've done. I'm bleeding.

When I did see the story of Persephone, I was really drawn to it. Persephone, the goddess of spring, was kept from Olympus by her mother, Demeter, because Demeter was very worried that the gods of Olympus would do something terrible to her.

My mother was totally different from the mothers of my friends. She would never separate from me. In a way, my life belongs to her. When I was a child, she complained that I was anorexic, so they sent me to places to get me to eat. When I look at pictures of myself, I was just a normal-looking child. It was her fantasy.

My mother looked at my image as if she were looking at a wicked little girl come to scornfully show herself to her poor mother. There was love in her look, but with such jealousy mixed in that the feelings became quickly slurred. It was what my mother gave me, so I took it and I gave it back; I reveled in her jealousy as she reveled in my vanity. Reveling and rageful, we went between sleep and dreams right there in the dining room. Silent and still, we attacked each other like animals.

How could she criticize her mother when, in truth, she wanted to be just like her, brave

I picked up the rose-colored sachet pillow on her bed. Hugging it against my flat chest, I breathed in its sweet fragrance. "I was very sassy on the phone. I'm sorry, Mom.

I have such an amazing relationship with my mom, and I think, 'Wow, I'm going to have that with my daughter.'

I could never put my finger on her realness. She was so pretty and so quick that even when she had just awakened, her eyes full of sleep and hair tousled, I thought she looked just like the Virgin Mary. But what mother and daughter understand each other, or even have the sympathy for each other's lack of understanding? Mother

I could never put my finger on her realness. She was so pretty and so quick that even when she had just awakened, her eyes full of sleep and hair tousled, I thought she looked just like the Virgin Mary. But what mother and daughter understand each other, or even have the sympathy for each other's lack of understanding?

I think my mother was baffled by me. We were polar opposites. She was shy and retiring. I was over-fond of the limelight. Many times in my life, I was conscious of embarrassing her with my carrying on.

Maybe there is something deeply wrong with me," Carol tells me. "It's just like my mom used to say, I am too difficult to love.

many daughters may never have given themselves permission to even 'consider' changing the relationship with their mothers, because they didn't think they had the right to do it.

Mother," Hyacinth said with a great show of solicitude, "you know I love you dearly—" "Why is it," Violet pondered, "that I have come to expect nothing good when I hear a sentence beginning in that manner?

She stood behind her mother's chair and brushed her hair gently for about five minutes, drawing the brush smoothly from forehead to nape, over and over, in the way her mother liked. It was the only sustained physical contact she seemed to enjoy. Her usual mode of a kiss good-bye, for instance, was the kiss-and-push-you-on-your-way. She wasn't a snuggler. No surprise, really, that this acceptable affection came via a prickly implement.