Celebrating Motherhood Quotes

Motherhood is about raising and celebrating the child you have, not the child you thought you would have. It's about understanding that he is exactly the person he is supposed to be. And that, if you're lucky, he just might be the teacher who turns you into the person you are supposed to be.

There is no greater heaven than the heart of a loving mother She takes care of you when you are still in her womb. She nurtures you after you are born. She hurts when you fall, She celebrates when you make your first steps. She is the only person who genuinely cares about you. She loves you as she loves herself. Her heart is your true paradise. I love you mama.

To be clear, the vast increase in the number of single women is to be celebrated not because singleness is in and of itself a better or more desirable state than coupledom. The revolution is in the expansion of options, the lifting of the imperative that for centuries hustled nearly all (non-enslaved) women, regardless of their individual desires, ambitions, circumstances, or the quality of available matches, down a single highway toward early heterosexual marriage and motherhood.

Throughout my life, there were a few hard days. Days where even when I tried to be happy, my heart still cracked, and Mother’s Day was one of those. For others, it stood as a celebration. For me, it spoke of loss and failure.

To emphasize how truly backward our society is...let's finish with a little quiz. Let's do it like Jeopardy. In 1990, this government required companies to give a new mother a year's leave at 90% pay. Answer: What was Sweden? This country provided nurseries for most children over eighteen months. Answer: What was Sweden? Nearly half of the children under three in this country were in publicly financed nurseries, and nearly 95% of children three to six were (and are). Answer: What is Denmark? In this country, 95% of children aged three to five are in preschool. Answer: What is France? This country provides care for one quarter of children under three in wholly or partially subsidized nurseries. Answer: What is France? In 1984, this country gave workers twelve weeks of maternity leave with pay. Answer: What is Brazil? (Yes, Brazil!) This country mandated eight weeks of maternity leave WITH PAY. Answer: What is Kenya? (You heard us, Kenya!) This country provided none of these things; instead, to help mothers and small children, its magazines featured profiles of rich celebrity moms who could show women how to do it all. Answer: What was the United States?

...above all, let your focus be on remaining a full person. Take time for yourself. Nurture your own needs. Please do not think of it as 'doing it all'. Our culture celebrates the idea of women who are able to 'do it all' but does not question the premise of that praise. I have no interest in the debate about women doing it all because it is a debate that assumes that caregiving and domestic work are singularly female domains, and idea that I strongly reject. Domestic work and caregiving should be gender-neutral, and we should be asking not whether a woman can 'do it all' but how best to support parents in their dual duties at work and at home.

And I always say that to the children: “You are the greatest thing I ever did in my life!

in a culture in which women clink their wine glasses in celebration each night for “surviving my kids for one more day,” there will be many who oppose a view of motherhood that says that we can do more by Christ’s strength.

in 3000 b.c....in spain, france, the british isles and old europe, the lives of people centered on nature and motherhood. they honored mother nature, mother earth and mother creator. women were revered as the givers of life. as creators, they were thought to be connected to diety. statues of the goddesses of these early people were of full-breasted women with bodies clearly depicting the ballooning abdomen of women about to give birth. these primal people regarded birthing as the highest manifestation of nature. when a woman gave birth, everyone gathered around her in the temple for the "celebration of life." birthing was a religious rite, and not at all the painful ordeal it came to be years later.

I think birthdays should be less about celebrating the birth of the child and more about celebrating the fact that we succeeded at keeping them alive for another year.

What was it about being a mom that was just so damn special this one day a year?...Who knows? All I knew was how nice it was to be celebrated on top of relishing the blessing of motherhood--a blessing not everyone who wanted it was fortunate enough to have.

She is created from honor and glory, knitted with love and grace. She is made of joy, speaks from peace and guides through wisdom. She is a bearer of hope and nurturer of future; God's humble gift, His craftsmanship, created for a marvelous work. She is called Mother.

Some feminist artists have chosen a fundamentally sexual or erotic imagery... Others have opted for a realist or conceptual celebration of female experience in which birth, motherhood, rape, maintenance, household imagery, windows, menstruation, autobiography, family background and portraits of friends figure prominently...

The frenzied hypernatalism of the women's magazines alone (and that includes People, Us, and InStyle), with their endless parade of perfect, "sexy" celebrity moms who've had babies, adopted babies, been to sperm banks, frozen their eggs for future use, hatched frozen eggs, had more babies, or adopted a small Tibetan village all to satisfy their "baby lust," is enough to make you want to get your tubes tied. (These profiles always insist that celebs all love being "moms" much, much more than they do their work, let alone being rich and famous, and that they'd spend every second with their kids if they didn't have that pesky blockbuster movie to finish.)

At the very same time that we witnessed the explosion of white celebrity moms, and the outpouring of advice to a surveillance of middle-class mothers, the welfare mother, trapped in a "cycle of dependency," became ubiquitous in our media landscape, and she came to represent everything wrong with America. She appeared not in the glossy pages of the women's magazines but rather as the subject of news stories about the "crisis" in the American family and the newly declared "war" on welfare mothers. Whatever ailed America--drugs, crime, loss of productivity--was supposedly her fault. She was portrayed as thumbing her nose at intensive mothering. Even worse, she was depicted as bringing her kids into the realm of market values, as putting a price on their heads, by allegedly calculating how much each additional child was worth and then getting pregnant to cash in on them. For middle-class white women in the media, by contrast, their kids were priceless, these media depictions reinforced the divisions between "us" (minivan moms) and "them" (welfare mothers, working-class mothers, teenage mothers), and did so especially along the lines of race. For example, one of the most common sentences used to characterize the welfare mother was, "Tanya, who has_____ children by ______ different men" (you fill in the blanks). Like zoo animals, their lives were reduced to the numbers of successful impregnations by multiple partners. So it's interesting to note that someone like Christie Brinkley, who has exactly the same reproductive MO, was never described this way. Just imagine reading a comparable sentence in Redbook. "Christie B., who has three children by three different men." But she does, you know.

I looked up again at the stained glass window. There she was, the same smile on her lips. I'm sure you were totally freaked out when they told you that you were pregnant, but at least your baby's birth is now celebrated all around the world! And so many people have been saved by you, and by your child! Then again, to be eternally known as the Virgin Mother, as if that's the only thing that gave meaning to your existence... Hey did you have any hobbies of your own? Or maybe there was a singer you were really into? You must have gotten stressed out sometimes. I mean, being called the Virgin Mother, even after your son was all grown up... And then to have him crucified like that. I can't imagine how hard that must have been. I just hope you managed to live your life the way you wanted, to take naps when you felt like it, to know yourself by a name that made sense to you...

She had spent her whole life trying to fix other people—her parents, her sisters, William—but that had been a fruitless endeavor; she could see that now. She couldn’t keep her father alive or her mother in Chicago or Cecelia celibate or William ambitious. She’d just been fine-tuning her skills for now, for what mattered, for motherhood. She would protect and celebrate her baby girl and let everyone else do whatever they wanted. With her daughter, Julia was complete. She realized, amazed: I love myself. That had somehow never been true before. William entered the room with a nervous smile on his face. Julia had been frustrated with her husband for weeks, but inside her new warmth, she felt affection for him. She was love. She beamed at William and thought: I never needed you. Did you know that? I thought I needed a husband, but I don’t actually need anyone. I could have done everything by myself. William bent his long body to hug her, and Julia wrapped her arms around his neck. She told him how excited she was for him to see the baby girl she’d made.

That Sunday night of Elena's third birthday, I wept beside her in bed. For her, but more, I believe, for myself: for a resilience I never knew I had, and that I believe all mothers possess, however they choose to express it. We are not soft, docile icons, mute and passive virgins: we are fucking fierce. Motherhood requires a tremendous bravery that I never recognized or celebrated before I was forced to come into it, shaking and stunned. It leads women to march, to protest, to fight, to enact change, to persevere at great risk to themselves, to challenge the very foundation of society. After the placenta had been buried, we set the rock atop it, and we all walked back to the house. Elena jumped on a mini trampoline, my niece went to recover from all the overqrought midlife emotion on the couch, my parents made lunch. I washed the blood from my hands, thinking about the oak, the rock, the placenta. Buried there is the truth of what it feels like to be so susceptible and broken-open, and also to say: I can do this. I will do this. I contain this, thirty-two miles of capillaries, a new tree of life. Mutter, madre, mater, material, moeder, modder: the mud, the material, the making at the heart of everything.

How had she ended up like this, imprisoned in the role of harridan? Once upon a time, her brash manner had been a mere posture - a convenient and amusing way for an insecure teenage bride, newly arrived in America, to disguise her crippling shyness. People had actually enjoyed her vituperation back then, encouraged it and celebrated it. She had carved out a minor distinction for herself as a 'character': the cute little English girl with the chutzpah and the longshoreman's mouth. 'Get Audrey in here,' they used to cry whenever someone was being an ass. 'Audrey'll take him down a peg or two.' But somewhere along the way, when she hadn't been paying attention, her temper had ceased to be a beguiling party at that could be switched on and off at will. It had begun to express authentic resentments: boredom with motherhood, fury at her husband's philandering, despair at the pettiness of her domestic fate. She hadn't noticed the change at first. Like an old lady who persists in wearing the Jungle Red lipstick of her glory days, she had gone on for a long time, fondly believing that the stratagems of her youth were just as appealing as they had ever been. By the time she woke up and discovered that people had taken to making faces at her behind her back - that she was no longer a sexy young woman with a charmingly short fuse but a middle-aged termagant - it was too late. Her anger had become a part of her. It was a knotted thicket in her gut, too dense to be cut down and too deeply entrenched in the loamy soil of her disappointments to be uprooted.

Motherhood is about raising—and celebrating—the child you have, not the child you thought you would have. It’s about understanding that he is exactly the person he is supposed to be. And that, if you’re lucky, he just might be the teacher who turns you into the person you are supposed to be.

Boring. Total downer. Again—you have to remember the audience. This isn’t some anti-abortion group. You’ve got to dig deeper. Remember who you’re talking to.” “Governor, I can guarantee you these people are anti-abortion.” “You don’t know that.” I did know that, and so did he. “They’re celebrating traditional motherhood, they’re independent Baptists, and they’re from Florence.” Now it would become an argument about something else. He’d get impatient and say, “Never mind, I’ll think of something,” and walk into the event. It didn’t matter what he said. At the Mother of the Year ceremony, middle-aged women cackled and cooed at anything the governor

Has there ever been a more important subject, in all the world, than children and families? These are, after all, the foundation and ultimate purpose of any society. Moreover, the overall purpose of this experience is not merely survival or just the day after day (after day) exercise of going through the motions of meeting basic needs. Rather, it was meant to be a long, deep immersion of a work in progress, a life-long celebration of sorts, steeped in love, beauty, and joy. Anything less is a travesty and is tragically off the mark of true success for the parent and the child, and amiss of the essentials for a fullness of life for both.

Mother’s Day is the special time of year to celebrate the motherhood.

Mother’s Day is the special time of year to celebrate the motherhood.

Ever since Brenna’s birth shook up everything we thought we knew, God had been reshaping and remolding my heart to discover all the joy and the beauty that this new world was trying to offer us. I opened myself up to this transformation as I faced each new trial and each new triumph… seeking, begging, learning, and finding strength, peace, gratitude, and joy. As we seek, we find. As we ask, we receive. And as we choose, we allow within us. By deliberately seeking joy and choosing joy throughout the challenges and the sickness, I realized that I had begun to find joy even when I wasn’t intentionally looking for it. By seeking to praise God and choosing to praise God within the trials and uncertainty of life, I had begun to find gratitude even when I wasn’t intentionally reaching for it. With a heart filled with joy over anger, peace over anguish, strength over despair, we can then begin to experience a full appreciation for so much of God’s beauty that we may never have considered before. We can build a life of contentment and gratitude as we appreciate and celebrate this different beautiful. Beautiful has very little to do with appearance—or at least as it pertains to hair color and noses and shoes. Beautiful is a way of being and a way of living, each and every day, perhaps each and every moment. Beautiful is joy radiating from your soul. Beautiful can be found everywhere, when we take the time to see it, when we want to see it. Beautiful can be wherever we seek it—in motherhood, in our homes, in our children, in marriage, in ourselves, in our faith, in our emotions, and in our experiences. The world, through God, is giving us all kinds of beautiful. It’s time for us to be brave. It’s time for us to take this different beautiful as it is offered to us and allow it to change us, to make us better, to connect us with others. If we’re going to open our hearts and live a life that celebrates a different beautiful, we need to shake off the unrealistic expectations, unwritten rules, and false definitions of normal that we place upon ourselves or allow others to pile on us. Living a life according to God’s definition of beautiful means ignoring the should-bes and, instead, chasing the could-bes.

To be clear, the vast increase in the number of single women is to be celebrated not because singleness is in and of itself a better or more desirable state than coupledom. The revolution is in the expansion of options, the lifting of the imperative that for centuries hustled nearly all (non-enslaved) women, regardless of their individual desires, ambitions, circumstances, or the quality of available matches, down a single highway toward early heterosexual marriage and motherhood. There are now an infinite number of alternate routes open; they wind around combinations of love, sex, partnership, parenthood, work, and friendship, at different speeds.

Claudia didn’t want to go to college. I assumed, because of my own upbringing with college as a constant target, that everyone wanted to go to college. Claudia was working toward something different: a high school diploma and a necessary and respectable job as a Metrobus driver. Her aspirations were likely limited by not knowing anyone in her family or community who went to college or worked in a profession that required a college degree—things that are necessary for young people to know what is possible for them. But I should have been asking Claudia questions instead of making assumptions. What do you love to do? What do you enjoy? What do you do well? And if you could do something all day long, what would it be? Often, teen mothers, disconnected youth, and young people living in poverty aren’t asked these questions. Instead, they’re prescribed pathways. Claudia may have been passionate about following in her mother’s footsteps, but maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she needed someone to help her think through other possibilities. Either way, I needed to celebrate who she was and what she wanted rather than what I wanted for her.

Happy Happy Mother's day Worth celebrating every day Even if they have passed away

You Are An Inspiration Inspiring words from an inspirational Mother to her child Walk this journey without hesitation Make a solemn declaration Have solid determination Until you reach your destination This process has no clear definition Therefore, make sound decisions Remember, the past has no revisions Child, have a clear vision This is what I envision As a candid resolution That you will be part of the solution When you embark on the Great Commission To accomplish the massive mission Seek the right information Celebrate your liberation Fear no limitation Pursue restoration Surpass any expectation And value your contribution Can I have a confirmation? Because you are an inspiration!

Worth More Than A Precious Jewel What a brilliant woman! She thinks beyond the now Yet, she lives in the present Will not let her past define her Never scared to face the future She is very influential And knows the power of self-love Takes pride in her life Such a humble Soul She lets nothing bring her down Even after a fall, she stands back up Where there seems to be no way Her resilience keeps the enemy at bay The universe celebrates her bravery As she walks from victory to victory A special human with a passion for humanity She dispels any myth of inferiority Sees herself as a priority Recognizes her own reality She does what she can do best Always has it covered by prayer A sister, a friend, a Mother A daughter, a neighbour, or a leader Who remains a great treasure! Because she is worth more than a precious jewel

Forever Grateful For a loving Mother From cradle to the grave You have been so brave With many children to raise You did well, with no haste You took away our pain And turned the rain Into bright sunny days in many special ways You made us find reasons to celebrate always You shared wise words Your wisdom carried us to new heights Lifted off our shoulders the heavy weight Made life so great Our lives, you changed Each one of us, you embraced The school of parenthood, you aced Your Motherhood distinction cannot be erased You ran your race with grace For us, you created a safe space To us, you have a special place That no one can ever take Mother, we are forever grateful

The culture of mediocre motherhood focuses on wallowing in the hard and celebrating our shortcomings as proof that we are all human and “in this together.

We need more days to celebrate our mothers. Right now we only have one day to celebrate them. Only one day to acknowledge the people who are responsible for the continuation of life. That's unfair.

Feminists, in vivid essays praising Shulamith Firestone’s legacy, fail to mention this emphatic celebration of incest and paedophilia; had she been male, she would not only have been dismissed by the same women on these very grounds, but her legacy would have been cancelled

The culturally facilitated association of femininity with masochism was celebrated during the Psychedelic Revolution.

The sanctity of motherhood in Islam cannot be overstated. How do you think Prophets and Messengers came into this world? God could have sent angels, but He chose to send men. Moreover, God could have created them without involving the biological sequence of events we are all familiar with, but that was not the case. To come into this world Prophets and Messengers had to enter through the gate of mercy we call the womb, ar-Ra’him, which lies within the woman. Not only that, but just in case we got confused and thought men were indispensable in this process, God's Word Jesus Christ peace be upon him was brought as a sign. God does not create in vain and among the lessons to be learned from Christ’s birth is the status of motherhood. Women are the gateways of God’s mercy and revelation to this world. The Merciful, ar-Rahman­, is the predominant Divine Attribute of God, which shares the same root letters in Arabic for the womb. The misguided quest to achieve sameness based on masculine standards established by a consumerist culture that rejects the Unseen does not only desacralize motherhood, it is also an active attempt at closing off the gate of mercy to the world. It places an undue burden on the woman who feels the impulse to claim that status, either through biology or adoption, by making her experience guilt for her feelings, and lays out an expectation to ignore them in favor for material pursuits that are euphemistically called achievements and are celebrated by a culture that negates her feminine essence.