The kind of power mothers have is enormous. Take the skyline of Istanbul — enormous breasts, pathetic little willies, a final revenge on Islam. I was so scared I had to crouch in the bottom of the boat when I saw it.
The lullaby is the spell whereby the mother attempts to transform herself back from an ogre to a saint.
The mother as a social servant instead of a home servant will not lack in true mother duty. From her work, loved and honored though it is, she will return to her home life, the child life, with an eager, ceaseless pleasure, cleansed of all the fret and fraction and weariness that so mar it now.
The mother's heart is the child's schoolroom.
The watchful mother tarries nigh, though sleep has closed her infants eyes.
The worker can unionize, go out on strike; mothers are divided from each other in homes, tied to their children by compassionate bonds; our wildcat strikes have most often taken the form of physical or mental breakdown.
There are lots of things that you can brush under the carpet about yourself until you're faced with somebody whose needs won't be put off.
There was never a great man who had not a great mother.
What do girls do who haven't any mothers to help them through their troubles?
Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.
When a woman is twenty, a child deforms her; when she is thirty, he preserves her; and when forty, he makes her young again.
Where there is a mother in the home, matters go well.
Women know the way to rear up children (to be just). They know a simple, merry, tender knack of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes, and stringing pretty words that make no sense. And kissing full sense into empty words.
Young women especially have something invested in being nice people, and it's only when you have children that you realize you're not a nice person at all, but generally a selfish bully.
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