Appreciate Mom Quotes

You are evidence of your mother's strength, especially if you are a rebellious knucklehead and regardless she has always maintained her sanity.

Must’ve been hard on your mom,” Frank said. “I guess we’ll do anything for someone we love.” Hazel squeezed his hand appreciatively. Nico stared at the cobblestones. “Yeah,” he said bitterly. “I guess we will.

You told me I wrote that poem because I was afraid of dealing with myself. And I used my mom as an excuse, accusing her of not appreciating or accepting me, when I should have been saying those words into a mirror.

Appreciate your mom. She is wiser than you think and stronger than you know. Be thankful.

Well, I'm glad you're so amused," I said, running my fingers across the railing. Maxon hopped up to sit on the railing, looking very relaxed. "You're always amusing. Get used to it." Hmm. He was almost being funny. "So...about what you said...," he started tentatively. "Which part? The part about me calling you names or fighting with my mom or saying food was my motivation?" I rolled my eyes. He laughed once. "The part about me being good..." "Oh. What about it?" Those few sentences suddenly seemed more embarrassing than anything else I'd said. I ducked my head down and twisted a piece of my dress. "I appreciate you making things look authentic, but you didn't need to go that far." My head snapped up. How could he think that? "Maxon, that wasn't for the sake of the show. If you had asked me a month ago what my honest opinion of you was, it would have been very different. But now I know you, and I know the truth, and you are everything I said you were. And more." He was quiet, but there was a small smile on his face. "Thank you," he finally said. "Anytime." Maxon cleared his throat. "He'll be lucky, too." He got down from his makeshift seat and walked to my side of the balcony. "Huh?" "Your boyfriend. When he comes to his senses and begs you to take him back," Maxon said matter-of-factly. I had to laugh. No such thing would happen in y world. "he's not my boyfriend anymore. And he made it pretty clear he was gone with me." Even I could hear the tiny bit of hope in my voice. "Not possible. He'll have seen you on TV by now and fallen for you all over again. Though, in my opinion, you're still much too good for the dog." Maxon spoke almost as if he was bored, like he'd seen this happen a million times. "Speaking of which!" he said a bit louder. "If you don't want me to be in love with you, you're going to have to stop looking so lovely. First thing tomorrow I'm having your maids sew some potato sacks together for you." I hit his arm. "Shut up, Maxon." "I'm not kidding. You're too beautiful for your own good. Once you leave, we'll have to send some of the guards with you. You'll never survive on your own, poor thing." He said all this with mock pity. "I can't help it." I sighed. "One can never help being born into perfection." I fanned my face as if being so pretty was exhausting. "No, I don't suppose you can help it.

Have either of you seen your mother ” “Yeah ” Ethan said and my heart actually skipped a beat. But I should have known Ethan was joking. “Slim lady. Blue eyes and a gray pageboy ” he continued his eyes glistening in appreciation of his own humor. “Answers to the name ‘Mom'.

After all, moms were appreciated only on Mother's Day. That's why they invented it. So they could treat you like a household appliance the rest of the year.

That morning, while Mom had fought with Grandpa, Aunt Sel had asked me to bring her a glass of wine—it was nine in the morning—and when I’d delivered it she’d handed me a ten dollar bill and said, “I dislike children, but I do appreciate decent service.

Thank you, Mom, for the way you managed yourself during the childish, mean, selfish, insensitive, irresponsible, unreasonable, hateful moments I put you through. From your example I learned to be patient, positive, kind, selfless, sympathetic, reliable, sensible, and loving. You have my endless appreciation.

You put your life on hold for me. And really, I get that. I appreciate that. But I'm not a baby anymore. Let go, Mom.

there are times when no one is right, and sometimes among family and children, no one can admit that there is no right, and that maybe at the same time there is no wrong. But in this case I was wrong and I appreciate Vivian Baxter for being big enough to accept my apology.

I appreciate the offer,’ he said. ‘But my mom told me not to accept curses from strangers.

According to my mom, I have the subtlety of a lightning bolt and the personality of a firework. She told me it would take an equally strong man to appreciate that kind of force of nature.

When I was a kid, my mom once told me that God was an artist and how on occasion He’d throw a bucketful of paint across the sky for us all to see. I asked her why the paint disappeared by morning, and she told me that if the sky was always like that we might take it for granted. I suppose she was right. Maybe that’s what war is all about—so we can appreciate times of peace.

Later, Bishop Crandall dropped by The house to give me a stern reprimand. He sat across the cluttered table, playing with a paper clip. 'Your parents are worries about you, Pattyn.' I was worried about myself. But I wasn't about to let him know it. "Really?" 'Really. What have you got to say for yourself? You've always been such a good girl.' Good girl. Sit. Stay. Fetch. Bristles rose up along my spine. "Define good." 'I don't appreciate your attitude, Pattyn. Fast and pray. Search your soul for the inequities in your life.' "Any inequity in my life began when I was born female. Can you fix that?" 'You'll have to fix that yourself, by concentrating on the things God expects of you.' His two-faced rhetoric was pissing me off. "You mean like kissing your ass?" He slammed his hand on the table. 'I will not listen to that sort of language. Apologize!' Behind me, I hear Mom gasp. But I was on a roll. "I'm sorry, Bishop I'm sorry I ever believed you might have something worthwhile to say.

when you’re young, you can’t wait to get away from home, and it’s only later that you appreciate what your mom—or dad, or whoever raised you—did for you. Only later that you realize you should have listened closer, that you weren’t done learning from them, that you still have questions about life.

The Christmas after Mom & Dad split up, they both went crazy buying us presents. Matt, Jonny, and I were showered with gifts at home and at Dads apartment. I thought that was great. I was all in favor of my love being paid for with presents. This year all I got was a diary and a secondhand watch. Okay, I know this is corny, but this really is what Christmas is all about.

Most of us have had the experience of creating beauty, whether by cleaning a room, planting a bed of flowers or hanging a painting. Our first impulse is to say, “Come and see! Look what I did!” Though it may be a long time since mom or dad came to see, we still have the need to share—to be seen, acknowledged, appreciated. But it’s more than approval we seek; we want to extend the joy. We want someone to help us make it more real, to linger with us in the warmth.

I appreciate the offer,” he said. “But my mom told me not to accept curses from strangers.

The timing of food at restaurants is always impeccably in line with the phrase you’d least like someone to overhear. You almost have to appreciate it, it’s like the waiters work on this.

My mom used to say that a man who hates cats is insecure, but a man who likes them is one worth keeping. If he can appreciate a cat, he can appreciate a strong, independent woman.” -Serena

On the wall next to the door we’d entered through was a huge floor-to-ceiling bulletin/whiteboard combo and hanging from a thumbtack on the bulletin board amongst pictures and other various sorts of memorabilia was my bra. It’d been washed but it still had a good many blotches of pink on it. If that wasn’t shocking enough, the dialogue written over the last two weeks on the whiteboard pertaining to said bra certainly was. I’ll include the copy just so you can truly appreciate what I’m dealing with here. Tristan’s Mom: What’s this? Tristan: A size 34B lace covered slingshot. Jeff: Nice! Tristan’s Mom: Do I want to know? Tristan: I don’t know, do you? Tristan’s Mom: Not really. Are you planning on returning it or did you win some kind of prize? Tristan: I plead the fifth. Tristan’s Dad: Well done son. Jeff: Ditto! Tristan’s Mom: Don’t encourage him. Tristan: Gee, thanks Mom. Tristan’s Dad: Can’t a father be proud of his only child? Tristan’s Mom: He doesn’t need your help…obviously. Tristan’s Dad: That’s because he takes after me. Tristan: Was there anything else I can do for you two? Tristan’s Mom: Tell her I tried to get the stains out, but I’m afraid they set in before I got to it. Tristan: I’m sure she’ll appreciate your effort, but if I’m any judge (and I’d like to think I am) its size has caused it to become obsolete and she needs to trade up. Jeff: I’m so proud. Tristan: Thanks man. Tristan’s Mom: A name would be nice you know. Tristan: Camie. Tristan’s Mom: Do we get to meet her? Tristan: Sure. I’ll have my people call your people and set it up. Tristan’s Mom: I don’t know why I bother. Do you want anything from the store? Tristan: Yeah, Camie’s sleeping over tonight and I promised her bacon and eggs for breakfast. Jeff’s got the eggs covered but could you pick up some bacon for us and maybe a box of Twinkies for the bus? Thanks, you’re the best. Jeff: I have the eggs covered? Tristan’s Dad: He gets his sense of humor from you. Tristan’s Mom: Flattery will get you everywhere. How would you like your eggs prepared dear?

I appreciate the pep talk, Dr Worries-Too-Much. But really, I'm fine. I mean, yeah, I'm a little queasy, and I have a slight headache - but wouldn't you, if you hadn't eaten in two days? Or has it been three?" Elwin sighed. "Actually, it's probably closer to four at this point." "Okay, four," Keefe corrected, trying hard not to wince. But almost four days unconscious in the Healing Center? That was a Foster-Level of almost dying! He'd have to make sure he returned the favor the next time he saw Mom of the Year.

Through pain and growth, I have come to appreciate -no, more than that-I've come to love my fence, even though it may be different than the neighbors'. The concept of perfection is not flawless or ripped from a magazine. It's happiness. Happiness with all itsmessiness and not-quite-thereness. It's knowing that life is short, and the moments we choose to fill our cup wiht should be purposeful and rich. That we should be present for life, that we should drink deeply. And that's perfection. And my dad and my mom and my family-my past, present, and future with Nella, what the world may view as broken or damaged-have taught me what true beauty really is.

Frank grabbed a tourist brochure stuck under the napkin dispenser. He began to read it. Piper patted Leo’s arm, like she couldn’t believe he was really here. Nico stood at the edge of the group, eyeing the passing pedestrians as if they might be enemies. Coach Hedge munched on the salt and pepper shakers. Despite the happy reunion, everybody seemed more subdued than usual—like they were picking up on Leo’s mood. Jason had never really considered how important Leo’s sense of humor was to the group. Even when things were super serious, they could always depend on Leo to lighten things up. Now, it felt like the whole team had dropped anchor. “So then Jason harnessed the venti,” Hazel finished. “And here we are.” Leo whistled. “Hot-air horses? Dang, Jason. So basically, you held a bunch of gas together all the way to Malta, and then you let it loose.” Jason frowned. “You know, it doesn’t sound so heroic when you put it that way.” “Yeah, well. I’m an expert on hot air. I’m still wondering, why Malta? I just kind of ended up here on the raft, but was that a random thing, or—” “Maybe because of this.” Frank tapped his brochure. “Says here Malta was where Calypso lived.” A pint of blood drained from Leo’s face. “W-what now?” Frank shrugged. “According to this, her original home was an island called Gozo just north of here. Calypso’s a Greek myth thingie, right?” “Ah, a Greek myth thingie!” Coach Hedge rubbed his hands together. “Maybe we get to fight her! Do we get to fight her? ’Cause I’m ready.” “No,” Leo murmured. “No, we don’t have to fight her, Coach.” Piper frowned. “Leo, what’s wrong? You look—” “Nothing’s wrong!” Leo shot to his feet. “Hey, we should get going. We’ve got work to do!” “But…where did you go?” Hazel asked. “Where did you get those clothes? How—” “Jeez, ladies!” Leo said. “I appreciate the concern, but I don’t need two extra moms!” Piper smiled uncertainly. “Okay, but—” “Ships to fix!” Leo said. “Festus to check! Earth goddesses to punch in the face! What are we waiting for? Leo’s back!” He spread his arms and grinned. He was making a brave attempt, but Jason could see the sadness lingering in his eyes. Something had happened to him…something to do with Calypso.

When I was in sixth grade, my mom bought me all these books about puberty and adolescence, so I would appreciate what a ‘beautiful’ and ‘natural’ and ‘miraculous’ transformation I was going through. Crap. That’s what it is. She complains all the time about her hair turning gray and her butt sagging and her skin winkling, but I’m supposed to be grateful for a face full of zits, hair in embarrassing places, and feet that grow an inch a night. Utter crap.

She helps me to the bathroom, helps me wash, then helps me put a gazillion tangles in my hair while she shampoos it. And she actually thinks we’re going to leave it that way. “I’m not going downstairs looking like a hobo,” I tell her. “We have to comb it.” “That thick mess will break this flimsy comb. Can’t you just run your fingers through it?” It’s weird to be arguing about my hair when we still haven’t discussed my wound, how I got it, and how I came to be snoring in Galen’s bed. We both seem to appreciate the bizarreness at the same time. Mom raises a brow. “Don’t think you get special treatment just because you can make a whale do the tango. I’m still your mother.” We both laugh so hard I think I feel a tiny rip in my newly dressed wound. Without warning, Mom throws her arms around me, careful to avoid touching it. “I’m so proud of you, Emma. And I know your father would be, too. Your grandfather can’t stop talking about it. You were amazing.” Ah, the bonding power of tangled hair and dancing whales. She releases me the second before it gets awkward. “Let’s get you dressed. We have a lot to discuss. And I get you’re starving. Rachel made you…uh…Upchuck Eggs.” “She gets an A for effort.

Mom's afraid you two will fight if you come," my father admitted later. "She knows she has to put all her focus into getting better." I assumed the seven years I'd lived away from home had healed the wounds between us, that the strain built up in my teenage years had been forgotten. My mother had found ample space in the three thousand miles between Eugene and Philadelphia to relax her authority, and for my part, free to explore my creative impulses without constant critique, I came to appreciate all the labors she performed, their ends made apparent only in her absence. Now we were closer than ever, but my father's admission revealed there were memories of which my mother could not let go.

Mother’s Day has evolved into a Yom Kippur for guilty children everywhere. Taking Mom out to brunch used to be an appreciative gesture. Now it’s a guilt-expiation liturgy.

Behind great men, children, companies or homes are some extraordinary women! Take time today and always to acknowledge the women in your life with a show of gratitude. Love compels a woman's heart. Appreciation drives her commitment. Kindness fuels her strength. Compassion gives her courage. God gives her to you.

You deserve to be appreciated, Emma." "I think I'm just used to feeling like I'm asking too much when I need something. Unless it's Maddy. My mom- "You're not asking too much," he said. "You were just asking the wrong person. Ask me instead.

I gave people who didn’t know what to say the best advice I could muster, which was that it was better to say anything rather than pretend that nothing was wrong. My hunch was that Mom would simply appreciate knowing that people were thinking of her.

SHE holds the hand to help you in your First Step, She is your First Teacher, SHE holds your hand when You Fall Down, SHE is the one who guides you in Life, SHE hides you from all Trouble, SHE is sometime Mentor, SHE even nurses you when you Fall ill, SHE gives you the confidence, SHE never give False Appreciation, SHE is the one who will scold you the most on your mistake, She is the one who even Fight for you when you are right, SHE is the one who believes in you when others do not, SHE is the one who Loves you even if You don't love her, SHE is the one who gave you LIFE, Do You know Who is 'SHE'?? 'SHE' is Mother your own MOM...

After dinner, I went upstairs and found Ren standing on the veranda again, looking at the sunset. I approached him shyly and stood behind him. “Hello, Ren.” He turned and openly studied my appearance. His gaze drifted ever so slowly down my body. The longer he looked, the wider his smile got. Eventually, his eyes worked their way back up to my bright red face. He sighed and bowed deeply. “Sundari. I was standing here thinking nothing could be more beautiful than this sunset tonight, but I was mistaken. You standing here in the setting sun with your hair and skin aglow is almost more than a man can…fully appreciate.” I tried to change the subject. “What does sundari mean?” “It means ‘most beautiful.’” I blushed again, which made him laugh. He took my hand, tucked it under his arm, and led me to the patio chairs. Just then, the sun dipped below the trees leaving its tangerine glow in the sky for just a few more moments. We sat again, but this time he sat next to me on the swinging patio seat and kept my hand in his. I ventured shyly, “I hope you don’t mind, but I explored your house today, including your room.” “I don’t mind. I’m sure you found my room the least interesting.” “Actually, I was curious about the note I found. Did you write it?” “A note? Ah, yes. I just scribbled a few notes to help me remember what Phet had said. It just says seek Durga’s prophecy, the Cave of Kanheri, Kelsey is Durga’s favored one, that sort of thing.” “Oh. I…also noticed a ribbon. Is it mine?” “Yes. If you’d like it back, you can take it.” “Why would you want it?” He shrugged, looking embarrassed. “I wanted a memento, a token from the girl who saved my life.” “A token? Like a fair maiden giving her handkerchief to a knight in shining armor?” He grinned. “Exactly.” I jested wryly, “Too bad you didn’t wait for Cathleen to get a little older. She’s going to be very pretty.” He frowned. “Cathleen from the circus?” He shook his head. “You were the chosen one, Kelsey. And if I had the option of choosing the girl to save me, I still would have picked you.” “Why?” “A number of reasons. I liked you. You are interesting. I enjoyed listening to your voice. I felt like you saw through the tiger skin to the person underneath. When you spoke, it felt like you were saying exactly the things I needed to hear. You’re smart. You like poetry, and you’re very pretty.” I laughed at his statement. Me, pretty? He can’t be serious. I was average in so many ways. I didn’t really concern myself with current makeup, hairstyles, or fashionable, but uncomfortable, clothes like other teenagers. My complexion was pale, and my eyes were so brown that they were almost black. By far, my best feature was my smile, which my parents paid dearly for and so did I-with three years of metal braces. Still, I was flattered. “Okay, Prince Charming, you can keep your memento.” I hesitated, and then said softly, “I wear those ribbons in memory of my mom. She used to brush out my hair and braid ribbons through it while we talked.” Ren smiled understandingly. “Then it means even more to me.

There are two ways to turn devils into angels: First, acknowledge things about them that you genuinely appreciate. Uncle Morty took you to the beach when you were a kid. Your mom still sends you money on your birthday. Your ex-wife is a good mother to your children. There must be something you sincerely appreciate about this person. Shift your attention from the mean and nasty things they have said or done to the kind and helpful things they have said or done—even if there are just a few or even only one. You have defined this person by their iniquities. You can just as easily—actually, more easily—define them by their redeeming qualities. It’s your movie. Change the script. Perhaps you are still arguing that the person who has hurt you has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. She is evil incarnate, Rosemary’s baby conceived with Satan himself, poster child for the dark side of the Force, destined to wreak havoc and horror in the lives of everyone she touches. A nastier bitch never walked the earth. Got it. Let’s say all of this is true—the person who troubles you is a no-good, cheating, lying SOB. Now here’s the second devil-transformer. Consider: How has this person helped you to grow? What spiritual muscles have you developed that you would not have built if this person had been nicer to you? Have you learned to hold your power and self-esteem in the presence of attempted insult? Do you now speak your truth more quickly and directly? Are you now asking for what you want instead of passively deferring? Are you setting healthier boundaries? Have you deepened in patience and compassion? Do you make more self-honoring choices? There are many benefits you might have gained, or still might gain, from someone who challenges you.

because God knew some fathers would neglect their responsibilities .when He created a woman He didnt use dirt again but he took a rib out of a man, to form a more powerful being, that why you get single mothers who can be both dads and moms at the same time for they contain both characteristics of a man and a woman..# we men need to appreciate women

No," I said, "but I really appreciate your refusal to give in to breakfasty social conventions." He tilted his head at me, confused. "Hazel has developed an issue with the ghettoization of scrambled eggs," Mom said. "It's embarrassing that we all just walk through life blindly accepting that scrambled eggs are fundamentally associated with mornings.

I think that’s my new mission: to be more appreciative of my days, like my mom.

All things end. They rarely end as we would like them to and often do so before we are ready. We transition in a way that gives our loss honor; we grieve with a love and true appreciation for what we have no longer. It was clear that my mom was ready to go; it was her time. My love of her and my desperation to keep her in my life were of no consequence to that fact, any more than my relentless attempts to improve The Lyon's Den kept it from cancellation. Both personally and professionally I was swamped with the message: Your plan pales compared to the larger one.

She needs to think you're still a couple. And you'll need to be convincing about it, too. Lots of kissing and stuff in case your mother tries to spy on you." Emma stops chewing. Galen drops his fork. "Uh, I don't think we need to take it that far-" Emma starts. "Oh, no? Teenagers don't kiss their sweethearts anymore?" Rachel crosses her arms, wagging the spatula to the beat of her tapping foot. "They do, but-" "No buts. Come on, sweetie. You think your mom's going to believe you keep your hands off Galen?" "Probably not, but-" "I said no buts. Look at you two. You're not even sitting next to each other! You need some practice, I'd say. Galen, go sit beside her. Hold her hand." "Rachel," he says, shaking his head, "this can wait-" "Fine," Emma grinds out. They both turn to her. Still frowning, she nods. "We'll make it a point to kiss and hold hands when she's around." Galen almost drops his fork again. No way. Kissing Emma is the last thing I need to do. Especially when her lips turn that red. "Emma, we don't have to kiss. She already knows I want to sleep with you." He cringes as soon as he says it. He doesn't have to look up to know the sizzling sound in the kitchen is from Rachel spitting her pineapple juice into the hot skillet. "What I mean is, I already told her I want to sleep with you. I mean, I told her I wanted to sleep with you because she already thinks I do. Want to, I mean-" If a Syrena could drown, this is what it would feel like. Emma holds up her hand. "I get it, Galen. It's fine. I told her the same thing." Rachel plops down beside Emma, wiping the juice spittle from her face with a napkin. "So you're telling me your mom thinks you two want to sleep with each other, but you don't think she'll be expecting you to kiss." Emma shakes her head and shovels a forkful of omelet into her mouth, then chases it with some juice. She says, "You're right, Rachel. We'll let her catch us making out or something." Rachel nods. "That should work." "What does that mean? Making out?" Galen says between bites. Emma puts her fork down. "It means, Galen, that you'll need to force yourself to kiss me. Like you mean it. For a long time. Think you can do that? Do Syrena kiss?" He tries to swallow the bite he forgot to chew. Force myself? I'll be lucky if I can stop myself. It had never occurred to him to kiss anyone-before he met Emma. These days, it's all he can think about, her lips on his. He decides it was better for both of them when Emma kept rejecting him. Now she's ordering him to kiss her-for a long time. Great. "Yes, they kiss. I mean, we kiss. I mean, I can force myself, if I have to." He doesn't meet Rachel's eyes as she plunks more fish onto his plate, but he can almost feel her smirking down at him. "We'll just have to plan it, that's all. Give you time to prepare," Emma tells him. "Prepare for what?" Rachel scoffs. "Kissing isn't supposed to be planned. That's why it's so fun." "Yeah, but this isn't for fun, remember?" Emma says. "This is just for show." "You don't think kissing Galen would be fun?" Emma sighs, putting her hands on her cheeks. "You know, I appreciate that you're trying to help us, Rachel. But I can't talk about this anymore. Seriously, I'm going to break out into hives. We'll make it work when the time comes." Rachel laughs and removes Emma's plate after she declines a second helping. "If you say so. But I still think you should practice.

Lecturing the assembled publicists and stylists, my mom says that if any aboriginal peoples or primitive tribe still does not celebrate her acting, that’s only because those subjugated native cultures find themselves oppressed by an evil, fundamentalist form of religion. Their budding appreciation of her films is obviously being quashed by some devilish imam or patriarchal ayatollah or witch doctor.

I regretted that the whole time my uncle was here with me, I’d been missing my mom instead of appreciating him. He’d never know how grateful I was that he’d taken me in when I didn’t have anyone else. He’d never know.

August 25, 1991 Dear friend, I am writing to you because she said you listen and understand and didn’t try to sleep with that person at that party even though you could have. Please don’t try to figure out who she is because then you might figure out who I am, and I really don’t want you to do that. I will call people by different names or generic names because I don’t want you to find me. I didn’t enclose a return address for the same reason. I mean nothing bad by this. Honest. I just need to know that someone out there listens and understands and doesn’t try to sleep with people even if they could have. I need to know that these people exist. I think you of all people would understand that because I think you of all people are alive and appreciate what that means. At least I hope you do because other people look to you for strength and friendship and it’s that simple. At least that’s what I’ve heard. So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I’m still trying to figure out how that could be. I try to think of my family as a reason for me being this way, especially after my friend Michael stopped going to school one day last spring and we heard Mr. Vaughn’s voice on the loudspeaker. “Boys and girls, I regret to inform you that one of our students has passed on. We will hold a memorial service for Michael Dobson during assembly this Friday.” I don’t know how news travels around school and why it is very often right. Maybe it was in the lunchroom. It’s hard to remember. But Dave with the awkward glasses told us that Michael killed himself. His mom played bridge with one of Michael’s neighbors and they heard the gunshot. I don’t really remember much of what happened after that

I do love Oregon." My gaze wanders over the quiet, natural beauty surrounding us, which isn't limited to just this garden. "Being near the river, and the ocean, and the rocky mountains, and all this nature ... the weather." He chuckles. "I've never met anyone who actually loves rain. It's kind of weird. But cool, too," he adds quickly, as if afraid to offend me. "I just don't get it." I shrug. "It's not so much that I love rain. I just have a healthy respect for what if does. People hate it, but the world needs rain. It washes away dirt, dilutes the toxins in the air, feeds drought. It keeps everything around us alive." "Well, I have a healthy respect for what the sun does," he counters with a smile." "I'd rather have the sun after a good, hard rainfall." He just shakes his head at me but he's smiling. "The good with the bad?" "Isn't that life?" He frowns. "Why do I sense a metaphor behind that?" "Maybe there is a metaphor behind that." One I can't very well explain to him without describing the kinds of things I see every day in my life. The underbelly of society - where twisted morals reign and predators lurk, preying on the lost, the broken, the weak, the innocent. Where a thirteen-year-old sells her body rather than live under the same roof as her abusive parents, where punks gang-rape a drunk girl and then post pictures of it all over the internet so the world can relive it with her. Where a junkie mom's drug addiction is readily fed while her children sit back and watch. Where a father is murdered bacause he made the mistake of wanting a van for his family. In that world, it seems like it's raining all the time. A cold, hard rain that seeps into clothes, chills bones, and makes people feel utterly wretched. Many times, I see people on the worst day of their lives, when they feel like they're drowing. I don't enjoy seeing people suffer. I just know that if they make good choices, and accept the right help, they'll come out of it all the stronger for it. What I do enjoy comes after. Three months later, when I see that thirteen-year-old former prostitute pushing a mower across the front lawn of her foster home, a quiet smile on her face. Eight months later, when I see the girl who was raped walking home from school with a guy who wants nothing from her but to make her laugh. Two years later, when I see the junkie mom clean and sober and loading a shopping cart for the kids that the State finally gave back to her. Those people have seen the sun again after the harshest rain, and they appreciate it so much more.

Dad walked by my room and reeled back fo ra better look at Jayden on my bed. "What is going on?" "Early morning tutoring session, Dad." He didn't look appeased, but before he could say anything, Mom glanced in. "It's just Jayden," she said and kept walking down the hall. "In our daughter's bed? Half naked!" "But it's Jayden," Mom said. "It doesn't count." "Thank you, Mrs. Lahey," Jayden said. "I appreciate your vote of confidence in my lack of coitus with your daughter." Dad's face went slack. "Oh my God." A&E Kirk, Demons in Disguise

Shane never knew how to address her friends' parents. She wanted to call her Mrs. Eliot's Mom, but knew that the cutesiness would not be appreciated. “Mrs. Kaspar” sounded too like a phone solicitor, which would not do after having kissed the circumference of her son's neck.

Sunsets are like snowflakes. No one is the same, my mom said. We miss too many of them rushing around. They are celebrations because every day is an accomplishment, a blessing of epic magnitude that we all take for granted. No matter how difficult a day has been, a sunset proves that there is still hope and good things can happen tomorrow. See how slowly they seem to take, and then how quickly they fade? my dad asked. Sunsets are really metaphors for life, which is why we should slow down to enjoy them. Which is why I always want you to appreciate them.

One of single moms’ biggest challenges is finding time to do it all. If you have a co-parent, it can be tempting to use those hours and days your kids are with their dad to catch up on housework or professional work. Don’t go down that rabbit hole. Use this time to prioritize self-care. Later, you will read from several women who so appreciate the time afforded by co-parenting to exercise, build businesses, catch up on TV and movies, nurture their social and dating lives, or just read a book. Do not squander those hours by doing laundry! Despite how full (and crazy) your days can be, there are always pockets of time you can dedicate to self-care.

They had found out. Before I could panic, I made myself stretch my fingers wide and take a calming breath. You already knew this was bound to happen. At least that’s what I told myself. The more I thought about it, the more I should have been appreciative that the people at the chapel in Las Vegas hadn’t recognized him. Or that people on the street had been oblivious and hadn’t seen us going in and out of there. Or that the receptionist at the acupuncturist hadn’t snapped a picture on her phone and posted it online. Because I might not understand all people, much less most of them, but I understood nosey folks. And nosey folks would do something like that without a second thought. Yet, I reminded myself that there was nothing to be embarrassed about. It would be fine. So, one gossip site posted about us getting married. Whoop-de-do. There was probably a thousand sites just like it. I briefly thought about Diana hearing about it, but I’d deal with that later. There was no use in getting scared now. She was the only one whose reaction I cared about. My mom and sisters’ opinions and feelings weren’t exactly registering at the top of my list now… or ever. I made myself shove them to the back of my thoughts. I was tired of being mad and upset; it affected my work. Plus, they’d made me sad and mad enough times in my life. I wasn’t going to let them ruin another day. Picking my phone up again, I quickly texted Aiden back, swallowing my nausea at the same time. Me: Who told you? Not even two minutes passed before my phone dinged with a response. Miranda: Trevor’s blowing up my phone. Eww. Trevor. Me: We knew it was going to happen eventually, right? Good luck with Trev. I’m glad he doesn’t have my number. And I was even gladder there wasn’t a home phone; otherwise, I’m positive he would have been blowing it up too. I managed to get back to looking at images on the screen for a few more minutes—a bit more distracted than usual—when the phone beeped again. It was Aiden/Miranda. I should really change his contact name. Miranda: Good luck? I’m not answering his calls. What? Me: That psycho will come visit if you don’t. Was that me being selfish? Yes. Did I care? No. Aiden: I know. Uh. Me: You’re always at practice… Aiden: Have fun. This asshole! I almost laughed, but before I could, he sent me another message. Aiden: I’ll get back to him in a couple days. Don’t worry. Snorting, I texted back. Me: I’m not worried. If he drops by, I’ll set him up in your room. Aiden: You genuinely scare me. Me: You don’t know how many times you barely made it through the day alive, for the record. He didn’t text me back after that

We've reached a point in human history where higher education no longer works. As a result of technology, higher education in its traditional college setting no longer works. It will never be effective or progressive enough to keep up with the growing needs of employers who look to college institutions for their future employees. I can appreciate the good intent the college system set out to achieve. For previous generations, the formula actually worked. Students enrolled into universities that were affordable, they gained marketable skills and they earned good jobs. Since there was a proven track record of success, parents instilled the value of college in their children thinking they would achieve the same success story they did, but unfortunately Wall Street was watching. Wall Street, the federal government and the college system ganged up and skyrocketed the cost of tuition to record highs. This was easy to do because not only did they have posters blanketing high schools showing kids what a loser they would be if they didn't go to college, they also had Mom and Dad at home telling them the same thing. This system - spending 4+ years pursuing a college education when the world is changing at the speed of light - no longer works and it's not fixable. We now have the biggest employer's market in human history, where employers have their pick of the litter, and because of this employees will get paid less and less and benefits will continue to erode.

I tend to get myself into messes. I don’t know why I am such a magnet for finding myself in a pickle, but it’s frequent and funny. Almost every day I will lose something or drop something or forget an appointment. The good news is that I have never left a child somewhere … so far—knock on wood. But even with all of my I Love Lucy adventures, I truly enjoy life. If I had to wait for perfection before I have a good time, I’d be too old and hard of hearing to appreciate it. Awhile back I shared a post on my blog called “20 Ways to Reset When the Kids Are Having a Hard Day.” It went viral! I realized I had hit on something that tired moms needed to hear … that there is a way out of those desperate moments, and the key is YOU. And it’s about more than just surviving. This is about true, deep, life-changing joy that can spring from those awful moments.

My mom's Busy Day Cake," Nellie said, lifting the carrier slightly. "With lemon frosting and some violets from the garden I sugared." Her mother had often made the cake for social gatherings, telling Nellie everyone appreciated a simple cake. "It's only when you try to get too fancy do you find trouble," Elsie was fond of saying, letting Nellie lick the buttercream icing from the beaters as she did. Some might consider sugaring flowers "too fancy," but not Elsie Swann- every cake she made carried some sort of beautiful flower or herb from her garden, whether it was candied rose petals or pansies, or fresh mint or lavender sugar. Elsie, a firm believer in the language of flowers, spent much time carefully matching her gifted blooms and plants to their recipients. Gardenia revealed a secret love; white hyacinth, a good choice for those who needed prayers; peony celebrated a happy marriage and home; chamomile provided patience; and a vibrant bunch of fresh basil brought with it good wishes. Violets showcased admiration- something Nellie did not have for the exhausting Kitty Goldman but certainly did for the simple deliciousness of her mother's Busy Day Cake.

On closer notice of her apron, he said, "Is that-?" "The Mad Hatter," she said. "I told you, I have a collection." "You collect aprons?" "Since I was little and my mom taught me to bake." When he smiled, she arched a brow. "Some find it charmingly quirky." "You never wore any to Gateau." "Shocking, I know. Because I'm certain the staff would have greatly appreciated the humor in them." His smile twitched wider at that. "You have a point, I suppose. I must say, this dry side of you is surprisingly appealing. What does it say?" He nodded toward her apron front. She lifted her arms away so he could read the script that accompanied the copy of an original pen and ink art rendering of the Hatter seated at a long table, holding a teacup aloft. "YOU'RE NEVER TOO OLD TO HAVE A TEA PARTY," he read out loud, then smiled at her. "I rather agree. You make a charming and somewhat more quirky Alice than I'd have expected. I seem to recall Alice spent the better part of her time being irritated and flustered, too. Perhaps if I'd come bearing tea and crumpets, with a bewildered, bespectacled white rabbit clutching a pocketwatch in his paw, you'd have been more willing to give me the time of day.

The team is showing its appreciation to the host families by taking them to a water park on Sunday. I know Mac is going out of town, but I thought you might still want to go. I mean, not as a date or anything. I’m going to invite the whole family.” “You don’t have to work Sunday?” “I got scheduled off.” “Sounds like fun. We could pack a picnic lunch--” “I’ll take care of that. As my thank you. All you have to do is bring yourself.” “And a bathing suit.” He grinned. “Yeah, and a bathing suit.” “And a towel. And suntan lotion…” “Maybe it’d be simpler if I just said I’ll take care of the tickets and eats.” “Okay, but I’ll go ahead and warn you not to take it personally that Mom and Dad aren’t really into water parks. It’s that whole not-using-the-exercise-equipment-as-intended thing Dad has going.” His grin grew. “I won’t take it personally.” “Okay, then, Sunday.” As though suddenly realized how intimate it seemed to be in my bedroom, he cleared his throat and took a step back. He gave my room one more look and took another step back. “It’s amazing what a room can reveal.” Then he walked down the hallway and knocked on Tiffany’s door. I wondered what he’d discover looking into her room.

Of course, no china--however intricate and inviting--was as seductive as my fiancé, my future husband, who continued to eat me alive with one glance from his icy-blue eyes. Who greeted me not at the door of his house when I arrived almost every night of the week, but at my car. Who welcomed me not with a pat on the arm or even a hug but with an all-enveloping, all-encompassing embrace. Whose good-night kisses began the moment I arrived, not hours later when it was time to go home. We were already playing house, what with my almost daily trips to the ranch and our five o’clock suppers and our lazy movie nights on his thirty-year-old leather couch, the same one his parents had bought when they were a newly married couple. We’d already watched enough movies together to last a lifetime. Giant with James Dean, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, Reservoir Dogs, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, The Graduate, All Quiet on the Western Front, and, more than a handful of times, Gone With the Wind. I was continually surprised by the assortment of movies Marlboro Man loved to watch--his taste was surprisingly eclectic--and I loved discovering more and more about him through the VHS collection in his living room. He actually owned The Philadelphia Story. With Marlboro Man, surprises lurked around every corner. We were already a married couple--well, except for the whole “sleepover thing” and the fact that we hadn’t actually gotten hitched yet. We stayed in, like any married couple over the age of sixty, and continued to get to know everything about each other completely outside the realm of parties, dates, and gatherings. All of that was way too far away, anyway--a minimum hour-and-a-half drive to the nearest big city--and besides that, Marlboro Man was a fish out of water in a busy, crowded bar. As for me, I’d been there, done that--a thousand and one times. Going out and panting the town red was unnecessary and completely out of context for the kind of life we’d be building together. This was what we brought each other, I realized. He showed me a slower pace, and permission to be comfortable in the absence of exciting plans on the horizon. I gave him, I realized, something different. Different from the girls he’d dated before--girls who actually knew a thing or two about country life. Different from his mom, who’d also grown up on a ranch. Different from all of his female cousins, who knew how to saddle and ride and who were born with their boots on. As the youngest son in a family of three boys, maybe he looked forward to experiencing life with someone who’d see the country with fresh eyes. Someone who’d appreciate how miraculously countercultural, how strange and set apart it all really is. Someone who couldn’t ride to save her life. Who didn’t know north from south, or east from west. If that defined his criteria for a life partner, I was definitely the woman for the job.

Jay's downstairs waiting." With her father on one side, and the handrail on the other, Violet descended the stairs as if she were floating. Jay stood at the bottom, watching her, frozen in place like a statue. His black suit looked as if it had been tailored just for him. His jacket fell across his strong shoulders in a perfect line, tapering at his narrow waist. The crisp white linen shirt beneath stood out in contrast against the dark, finely woven wool. He smiled appreciatively as he watched her approach, and Violet felt her breath catch in her throat at the striking image of flawlessness that he presented. "You...are so beautiful," he whispered fervently as he strode toward her, taking her dad's place at her arm. She smiled sheepishly up at him. "So are you." Her mom insisted on taking no fewer than a hundred pictures of the two of them, both alone and together, until Violet felt like her eyes had been permanently damaged by the blinding flash. Finally her father called off her mom, dragging her away into the kitchen so that Violet and Jay could have a moment alone together. "I meant it," he said. "You look amazing." She shook her head, not sure what to say, a little embarrassed by the compliment. "I got you something," he said to her as he reached inside his jacket. "I hope you don't mind, it's not a corsage." Violet couldn't have cared less about having flowers to pin on her dress, but she was curious about what he had brought for her. She watched as he dragged out the moment longer than he needed to, taking his time to reveal his surprise. "I got you this instead." He pulled out a black velvet box, the kind that holds fine jewelry. It was long and narrow. She gasped as she watched him lift the lid. Inside was a delicate silver chain, and on it was the polished outline of a floating silver heart that drifted over the chain that held it. Violet reached out to touch it with her fingertip. "It's beautiful," she sighed. He lifted the necklace from the box and held it out to her. "May I?" he asked. She nodded, her eyes bright with excitement as he clasped the silver chain around her bare throat. "Thank you," she breathed, interlacing her hand into his and squeezing it meaningfully. She reluctantly used the crutches to get out to the car, since there were no handrails for her to hold on to. She left like they ruined the overall effect she was going for. Jay's car was as nice on the inside as it was outside. The interior was rich, smoky gray leather that felt like soft butter as he helped her inside. Aside from a few minor flaws, it could have passed for brand-new. The engine purred to life when he turned the key in the ignition, something that her car had never done. Roar, maybe-purr, never. She was relieved that her uncle hadn't ordered a police escort for the two of them to the dance. She had half expected to see a procession of marked police cars, lights swirling and sirens blaring, in the wake of Jay's sleek black Acura. Despite sitting behind the wheel of his shiny new car, Jay could scarcely take his eyes off her. His admiring gaze found her over and over again, while he barely concentrated on the road ahead of him. Fortunately they didn't have far to go.

I cried the entire way home as my mom berated me for not appreciating the life I had. I didn’t care that we had a roof over our heads and food on the table every night.  What good are basic human amenities without a pair of faux fur flats? I wanted those shoes more than anything.

We also received food stamps and bus tokens. Even though she was not a welfare mom, my mother still very much appreciated the government assistance we did receive from time to time. Still, I had an inherent dislike for government assistance and was frankly quite embarrassed that we had to accept anything from them.

From time to time, mothers come across people who don't have children, but who still have all the answers about what they should or should not be doing with their child. This advice is typically met with false appreciation followed by sarcastic laughter with their mom friends the next day. It's not that those non-moms are trying to be obnoxious, and it's not that those moms are trying to be mean. It's just that unless you've had to care for a child twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, then you might want to keep your opinions to yourself because you ain't about that life.

how their sons were being mistreated, and they always were very sincere. Mom believed her son unquestioningly despite his past performances and was hell-bent to take up his cause. I can appreciate a mother’s love for her offspring, but nearly always she’s been taken in by his one-sided spin. She’s so used to his lies that a few more don’t make much difference. Fortunately for me, I didn’t have to talk to Mom very often. Usually the administration fielded these calls unless there was a real medical issue at stake. Like my ulcerative colitis patient, Scott. Scott’s mom wanted to know why her son wasn’t on his UC medication. “Scott didn’t mention taking any medication for his UC. He said it hasn’t flared up in over a year.” “That’s not true. I give him money for his medication every month. He’s regular with it.

I bristle at this. My mother happens to be in prison right now. The only bright side about that is she is probably getting better food than I’ve been. My mother was one of those high-rolling entrepreneurs. She was doing so well, and it just all caved in on her. One of those dot-com businesses, you might inquire? Corporate takeover, perhaps? You know, those are all really great suggestions, but the fact is Mrs. Bobbie Ann Parker (a.k.a. my mom) found not everyone liked her products or appreciated her business skills. And when I say everyone, I mean the police. And when I say products, I mean drugs.

bet you’d make a great mom,” Cody says from beside Emmy.   His soft blue eyes are fixed appreciatively on Jordan. I’ve

I’m not looking for a profit, Mr. Dandry. I just want to buy some stuff. He was making that kinda hard, you know?” He looked at me like I was speaking gibberish. “It wouldn’t hurt if it made me look good, though. If anyone asks about me, I’d appreciate a little good publicity with the Conclave.” He nodded enthusiastically, making his round little face jiggle like a bowl of my mom’s pudding. “Of course! You’re very powerful, not a, um…person to be trifled with, obviously!” “Could we just go with how I’m not so evil? That’s all I’m looking for.” He nodded again, his head bobbing up and down so fast I thought it might pop off and go bouncing. “Well, yes, I could do that.

If we Could go Back in Time   If we could go back in time, what changes would we make? If we could relive our lives, what different roads would we take?   Would we say we’re sorry to those that we done wrong? Would we embrace and hold tight, our loved ones, who have been gone for so long?   Would we undo some of the things that we once did? Would we change some of the words that we once said?   Would we appreciate those who are now in our lives? Or would we wait again, until they are gone or die?   Would we hold our children once again on our knee? Would we say to Mom and Dad, how much you mean to me?   For some day, now, will be the past where you wish you could go, To relive today and there to show,   Your love for those that mean so much to you, For you cannot go back in time, no matter how much you want to.

Friends are fallible. They have their own lives. They are not our Jesus and we cannot suck all the life out of them in an effort to feel whole and loved. So we won't put all our faith and hope in them, but we will appreciate the incredible support and encouragement they provide.

My mom used to say that a man who hates cats is insecure, but a man who likes them is one worth keeping. If he can appreciate a cat, he can appreciate a strong, independent woman.

In the middle of the everyday conversation between mother and daughter, Lillia suddenly remembered something. “Wait! You said you’re going to be doing test flights for twenty days straight!” “Yeah. Maybe even longer, depending on the weather.” “Then… does that mean you’re gonna stay there the whole time, Mom?” Allison nodded. “It’s not an ordinary base, honey. I can’t tell you the details, but it’s a little far from the Capital District. I can’t commute there every day.” “Th-then—” Lillia glared at the boy in the apron drinking tea next to her. Then, she pointed at him. “Then I have to stay with Treize the whole time? Here, just the two of us?” “I guess so.” Allison replied nonchalantly. Lillia raised her voice again. “No way! With this sorry guy?!” “Now, now, be nice, Lillia. And what’s wrong with Treize? He’s a good cook and an excellent housekeeper. You have no idea how much I appreciate all his help.” Lillia nodded, sullenly agreeing. But she quickly shot back. “But still! You want a teenaged guy and a teenaged girl to live in a house together, just the two of them? As a mother, aren’t you worried? What if we have an accident or something?” Treize quietly sipped his tea. “Don’t worry, Treize is a gentleman.” “How can you be so sure?” “Because I’m good friends with Treize’s father, who is a gentleman.” Treize quietly sipped his tea. Lillia shot him a glance, then replied dubiously. “Still…” Allison gave a loving smile. “It’ll be fine as long as you don’t force yourself on Treize.” “Why would I?!” “For example, when he’s asleep and defenseless.” “Are you out of your mind, Mom?! I would not!” Treize quietly sipped his tea.

I see now why you needed space to heal. I needed space to get my shit together. To be a better man for myself, and hopefully one day a better man for you. I love you, Danielle. You probably knew that, but you’ve made me recognize the power of words, how they matter, so I’m telling you now. Here, so that this is a love note you can hold close to you. Whatever happens between us, whatever man you end up settling down with (although I promise he’ll suck in comparison to me), keep this note. Write about me in one of your books, write about us. That will be your love note to me. A way to subtly let me know you never forgot about me. This memory. This moment in time when the world was so confusing and we had to grow up, and we grew up in one another. That our time together was boundless, that affection and appreciation and fondness and emotion are all the things we felt together (and yes, I looked at a thesaurus for words to describe love, so what). Because I love you. Did I say that? I love you enough to lose you, to be thankful to have had you, to want you to be the happiest version of Danielle you can be. And whether that’s with me or without, your mom is right. If anyone deserves a true love story, it’s you.

I also like to call this category "hypersuck," because women tend to get "sucked" into believing that our bodies are wild, scary, shameful places that need to be managed by an outside source, medicated, controlled, and sterilized. (We have the media and other social influences to thank for that.) We are rewarded for acting/speaking/looking like young girls versus confident women. We have too few powerful, healthy role models, but plenty of exhausted moms and emaciated models front and center on our cultural stage. We have a hard time appreciating our grown-up female bodies. We're made to feel that feminine intuition is fickle. We suspect that our energy is unstable. We're conditioned to think that our periods are shameful and disgusting. We look for ways to fix what's broken. We discipline the highs and lows of our female essence. We disconnect from our own bodies and, often, our deepest sense of knowing. Ultimately, our mind-body conversation tips the scales in a negative direction, and this too affects hormone balance. And since hypersuck (that old cultural conditioning) tricks us into thinking our bodies are supposed to be acting this way, we allow serious hormonal issues - and all the symptoms that tag along - to linger for years before seeking out any kind of sustainable action to help heal ourselves. Sadly, many women lose faith long before reaching the point of action.

I appreciate the offer, but my mom told me not to accept curses from strangers.

I nod. “I appreciate that. But that’s just how she is.” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t make it right.” “Amelia says the same thing, but it’s like, what am I supposed to do about it? That’s my mom.” Brian gnaws on his lip, deep in thought. After a moment, he says, “I honestly don’t know. I don’t have a good answer. I just—I need you to know you deserve better. Okay?

She’s helped me to realize that my bulimia was never really about food. It was about my mom, about connecting with her, holding on to her through it. It was about my sense of self. It was realizing that in order to feel like I was in control of my own life, I had to relinquish control of many other things. Food was just how all those things manifested themselves. Once I was able to realize that, I could appreciate food in a new way.

Moscone had grown up poor in San Francisco, raised by a single mother. He had street smarts and true-blue populist appeal, a mayor for the people—and he was rumored to smoke the occasional joint. He had been the California state senate majority leader before moving back to what he called the “greatest city in the world” to run for mayor, a post he said he’d wanted since childhood. During his senate years, Moscone had coauthored a bill decriminalizing sodomy and oral sex between consenting adults in California—a felony before then—earning the undying appreciation of the gay community. He’d also ushered in the Moscone Act, which knocked possession of less than one ounce of marijuana down from a felony to a misdemeanor, earning the undying appreciation of stoners like Meridy.

It’s like, when you’re young, you can’t wait to get away from home, and it’s only later that you appreciate what your mom—or dad, or whoever raised you—did for you. Only later that you realize you should have listened closer, that you weren’t done learning from them, that you still have questions about life.

I feel this intense pressure to step in and be this amazing “bonus mom.” Everyone expects me to just naturally be maternal and love my step-kids and take care of everything for them. I feel like I do all the hard work of parenting, but I don’t get any of the benefits that bio-parents get. I don’t get love, loyalty, or affection from the kids, no matter how kind I am to them. They never hug me or say thank you. I certainly don’t get acknowledged on Mother’s Day. I really try to be a good stepmom, but I feel like all my efforts are looked at with suspicion or resentment from my step-kids, because they think I’m “trying too hard.” It also feels like my husband wants it both ways. He expects me to love his kids “just like they’re my own,” and he expects me to take care of them and be involved and support them and help raise them. But then he gets defensive and territorial, and he resists my input if I try to be involved in any actual parenting, because they’re “his” kids, not mine. And his ex-wife gets threatened, and she basically tells me to “butt out and stay in my place.” So, my husband and his ex both expect me to help them do the hard work of parenting and provide childcare for them, but only on their terms. Apparently, I don’t get a place at the decision-making table. I feel like an unpaid babysitter, not a partner. And it seems like the harder I work and the nicer I am, the less anyone appreciates me. I can’t win.

Such A Great Treasure This is my lovely daughter With a special place in my life She melts my heart with her smile Calms my nerves with laughter For her, I have so much love Love that will keep her warm On cold winter nights Even when I left ahead of time God took care of her Better than me being there As I watch her from afar I do appreciate That she is truly mine I once held her in my arms And she named me her mom What a privilege it was To birth such a great treasure!

Extraordinary Woman A token of appreciation to my beloved Mother You are beautiful Undeniably great Nature’s most amazing gift Your smile is worth a million bucks You shine like a star Your presence brings calm Your laughter brightens my day Your kindness warms my nights I am fortunate to call you Mom In you, I see an angel Under whose wings I remain safe All because you are so great What can one do to appreciate Such an amazing Soul Who fights like a warrior For the sake of her children You wake up each morning Ensuring that things are in the right place There is no way one can ever replace Such an extraordinary woman

Perfection is overrated,” my mom used to always say when things weren’t going my way. It never made sense when I was younger, but I was beginning to see that life had more meaning in its imperfections. Without the bad, how could we ever appreciate the good?

I don't know." But I do know. Because I was four. Because I understood I'd done something very, very bad. I knew it made people upset and angry. So it was easier to pretend I didn't remember doing it. The kind of logic only a four-year-old can appreciate, the kind of logic I stumble to explain to her. [...] "I hate you!" Her arms locked at her sides, fists clenched, eyes screwed tightly shut, she screams it at the top of her voice. "Are you happy now? Is that what you want to hear? I hate you I hate you I HATE YOU! You killed her! You murdered my little baby girl! I hate you, Sebastian—God, I fucking hate you!" [...] "That's okay," I tell her. [...] I say, "I'm sorry." [...] "Mom, I have to talk about it. I have to, okay? I can't go on like this. I've been—" *thinking of killing myself* is the end of that sentence, but not something I can say to her. Not yet. Not even now. "I've been so sad," I say instead.

If there's one mistake we all probably make as mothers, it's not praying enough. I really appreciate the point that our most important ministry to our kids is what they do not see us doing, which is constantly bringing them before the throne, being persistent, being in a constant posture of prayer for their souls, their life path, their ministry, their families (whether current or future)." ... "What are we really doing with the privilege and opportunity that we have to pray for our kids? No one else in the world will pray for them like their mother should - so, are we taking that responsibility seriously enough?" (beginning on pg. 49)

If there's one mistake we all probably make as mothers, it's not praying enough. I really appreciate the point that our most important ministry to our kids is what they do not see us doing, which is constantly, bringing them before the throne, being persistent, being in a constant posture of prayer for their souls, their life path, their ministry their families... what are we really doing with the privilege and opportunity that we have to pray for our kids? No one else in the world will pray for them like their mother should - so, are we taking that responsibility seriously enough?" -Melissa Edgington, pg. 49-50

Looks are a depreciating asset, and the older you get, the more your inner beauty matters. How you act (and make people feel) impacts the way people see you. Beauty is a running tally influenced by a woman’s choices, and many outwardly beautiful females make themselves ugly by acting catty, vindictive, or mean. They start as a ten on the beauty scale and fall to a seven as their true colors show. Then there are females with so much character and inner light that they rise from a seven to a ten. Once you know them, a deeper beauty shines through: God’s presence inside of them. Your beauty quotient grows by simply being kind. And you can feel more attractive by using your heart, brain, and talent, all of which can appreciate and get better with time. Appearance is a starting point, and what makes people crave your company runs deeper than the eye can see.

Acknowledge their interest by saying: “I so appreciate that you’re thinking about what’s best for our family. I know you love us. Here’s what we think is best.” Legitimize their cultural cluelessness by saying: “As you can see, this is a topic and debate that so many people are having right now. Here’s the choice we’re making.” Deflect their attention by asking: “What did you do? It’s always so interesting to hear how people come to a very personal decision like this. Say, would you like a deviled egg?

I’m sure our newcomers appreciate hearing that being diagnosed with HIV is not all doom and gloom.” The leader’s gaze swept over all the others in the circle. “With an attitude like Duncan’s, great things will happen to you. Don’t let the disease define you. Make the disease work for you instead.” An hour later, the meeting was over. John had gotten the opportunity to introduce himself to the group, something he would have preferred to have skipped, but that wasn’t allowed. Everyone must participate in that part; only the question and answer session that followed was optional. He hadn’t mentioned that he used to be a cop, certainly not that he had been fired. He’d just said that he was a private eye and that he would be happy to be their spy if they needed one. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” Linda asked John when they were outside the room and in the hallway, where donuts and coffee and tea were served. Most of the participants milled around there, connecting with each other. John shrugged and grabbed a jelly donut. “I guess not.” The bespectacled leader named Robert came up to them then. He was on the short side and had an emaciated face with delicate features. He stuck out a bony hand toward John. John took it and gave it a firm shake. “John, it’s so nice to have you join us today,” Robert said with a broad smile that displayed big, graying teeth. Robert was HIV-positive as well, and in the chronic HIV stage. “Thank you for having me,” John said and returned the smile as best he could. “It’s been very…educational. I’m glad I came.” “Great,” Robert said, then his attention went to Linda. “Thanks for bringing your friend, Linda. And for coming again yourself.” “Oh, of course,” Linda said and smiled. Her hazel eyes glittered with warmth. “It’s a great group and you’re a great leader.” “Thank you. That’s so kind of you to say.” Robert tossed a glance over his shoulder, then leaned in toward John and Linda. “I just wanted to apologize for Doris.” “Apologize?” Linda repeated. “What did she do?” “Well, for starters, she’s not 33. She’s 64 and has been infected for thirty years. She’s also a former heroin addict and prostitute. She likes to pretend that she’s someone else entirely, and because we don’t want to upset her, we humor her. We pretend she’s being truthful when she talks about herself. I’d appreciate it if you help us keep her in the dark.” That last sentence had a tension to it that the rest of Robert’s words hadn’t had. It was almost like he’d warned them not to go against his will, or else. Not that it had been necessary to impress that on either John or Linda. John especially appreciated the revelation. Maybe having HIV was not as gruesome as Doris had made it seem then. Six Yvonne jerked awake when the phone rang. It rang and rang for several seconds before she realized where she was and what was going on. She pushed herself up on the bed and glanced around for the device. When she eventually spotted it on the floor beside the bed, it had stopped ringing. Even so, she rolled over on her side and fished it up to the bed. Crossing her legs Indian-style, she checked who had called her. It was Gabe, which was no surprise. He was the only one who had her latest burner number. He had left her a voicemail. She played it. “Mom, good news. I have the meds. Jane came through. Where do you want me to drop them off? Should I come to the motel? Call me.” Exhilaration streamed through her and she was suddenly wide awake. She made a fist in the air. Yes! Finally something was going their way. Now all they had to do was connect without Gabe leading the cops to her. She checked the time on the ancient clock radio on the nightstand. It was past six o’clock. So she must have slept

Positive words of encouragement let our children know that we believe in them and that we’re in their corner. Instead of growing into adults with Mom or Dad’s critical voice in their heads, our children can use words of support and confidence to motivate themselves and reinforce positive behaviors. Rather than “Good job,” use I-messages to praise your child honestly and descriptively. Instead of vague, general words, be specific in your encouragement: “When you gave that bike a try even though it was scary, I really appreciated your courage.” Here are a few other phrases that can create connection through encouragement: Thank you for your kindness. I really appreciate how hard you tried for that. What you did was very generous. You showed enormous strength in handling this challenge. I love your sense of skepticism! Your imagination is awesome! Thank you for reminding me how fun it is to be playful.

It shouldn't even be up for discussion, in a perfect world. The rights of women should be sacrosanct. If men bore children, there would be no need for law; the right would simply exist. As a woman, I take great exception to my rights being used as a political platform by greedy and dishonest politicians to gather voters to their side. It reinforces the fact that women--in general--are viewed as lesser beings in our society. That being said, I appreciate your thoughts on this subject, Tom. As men go, you're exceptional. I hate what most people view as feminism these days. It's become ugly and combative, and the movement has lost its focus. It's become a man vs. woman "blame game", and it has to stop before we can evolve further. To me, feminism is simply equal rights--HUMAN rights. I will always thank a guy for those lovely gestures like holding my door and helping me with my coat. I'm old-fashioned that way. However, I realize that if I want to be respected, I have to give a man something to respect. I treat him and his feelings with equal care. A lot of my "new feminist" friends hate me because I actually THINK that it's okay to be pretty, to shave my legs and under my arms, to have long hair and to smile...and I choose to keep my bra, not burn it. Like Bukowski said, "I have little time for things for things that have no soul." That sums up our government, our politicians and their shameless manipulation of my rights as a woman. I saw my Grandmother and my Mom destroyed by the way that it was back in the good old days. I'll always be grateful for the strong and quiet femininity that they've passed on to me, and for the passionate blood in my veins manifested as a child born in the era of revolution.

I could feel the tension leaving her as she gave in, her kisses rich and consuming as I explored her mouth with mine. I moved my hand that final inch, my thumb dragging its way up the centre of her panties until I found her clit and pressed down, making her gasp in pleasure. I began circling my thumb against her through her panties and she arched her back, her thighs widening further to give me all the access I wanted to destroy her. I kissed harder as I began to unhook her shirt buttons with my free hand, wanting to see those fucking tits I'd been jerking off over in the flesh. Her hands continued to move across my bare skin as I kept working her clit and I gave up trying to take my time with her as she started panting with need. I shifted my hand, pushing her panties aside and growling with desire as I found her pussy soaked and ready for me and I immediately sank a finger deep inside her. Tory moaned, her voice rough and breathy and so fucking sexy that I had to fight the urge to drop my pants and drive my cock into her here and now so that I could hear what it sounded like when I really made her scream. But thanks to fucking Teddy, I knew I didn't have time to fuck her the way I ached to and I didn't want to rush through something I'd been daydreaming about for so long. So I was going to feel her coming for me like this, take control of her pleasure and leave her wanting more so that she was aching for me as much as possible the next time we found ourselves alone like this and I could really show her what I was made of. My other hand found her tit and I squeezed it through her bra, groaning at the fullness in my palm and breaking our kiss as I worked my way down her body to better service her hardened nipple. Tory leaned back, giving me a perfect fucking view of her with her shirt swinging wide and her skirt hitched up around her waist as I drove my finger in and out of her tight pussy. I yanked her bra down, my dick jerking at the sight of her pink nipple before my mouth descended on it and I sucked it between my lips, coupling the move with the addition of a second finger driving inside her. She moaned even louder, her pussy tightening like a vice around my fingers while I sucked on her nipple and felt her body surging towards its climax like I was playing the most exquisite instrument in the world. The moment I felt her coming for me, I reared up and kissed her hard, swallowing her cries of pleasure and tasting her lust as I dragged my tongue over hers. My dick was fucking aching and I growled with a desperate, needy plea of my flesh which I knew I didn't have time to answer as the heat of our kisses softened and I slowly drew my fingers back out of her, fixing her panties into place again. I broke off our kiss with a surge of effort, mentally planning to give Teddy the lesson from hell for forcing me to cut this shit short after I'd waited so long to claim it. Tory blinked up at me in surprise and I had to fight the urge to pout like a bitch as I read the desire in her body and knew she'd been hoping to come all over my cock again after that stunning first round. “I have a student coming in a minute to learn the art of Vampirism from an expert,” I explained, wishing I could just cancel the damn thing, but my mom had already been calling me out on not attending a bunch of these sessions and as our family name was linked to them, it was a bad look for me to miss any more of them. “So that was purely for my benefit?” Tory asked in surprise as she began to re-button her shirt. My jaw ticked with frustration, though I couldn't claim she was the only one of us who had gotten something out of that. “Oh no, I got plenty from that too,” I promised her, my gaze sweeping over her body appreciatively as I began to mentally plan all the things I wanted to do to every inch of her if I was lucky enough to get to do this with her again. (Caleb POV)

I’ve long known that what we put our attention on grows. One of my favorite quotes of all time is: “What we appreciate appreciates.” (I don’t know who said it, but I love it.) So I hypothesized that if I paid attention to the cycles going on within me and around me and participated with them on purpose that I could get the same kind of results that Mother Nature gets: massive abundance, beauty, diversity, and life force. I could naturally have more by doing less.

Abraham-Hicks says that appreciation has an even more attractive vibration than gratitude because it’s purely about noticing what we like about what’s in front of us instead of gratitude, which is often about liking what’s in front of us as compared to what could be in front of us or what used to be in front of us. So, for today or the next few days, simply focus on appreciation. What can you find in your immediate environment right now that you can appreciate? For me, it’s the way the sun is reflecting off the sequins on a sweet throw pillow my girlfriend gave me that says hello on it. It looks magical in the afternoon light as I type this.

It must be hard for Chloe as a single mom," Garcia said. "Lots of bills to pay and no one to help. Sometimes people get desperate." My spider senses tingled. This was not where I had expected the conversation to go. "Olivia is safe, healthy, and happy," I said. "Chloe works three jobs to support her. They're renting the first floor of a nice house that has three other lovely tenants, and although money is tight, the only real issue she has is an ex who has consistently refused to pay child support or alimony. He's someone you should investigate, not Chloe. He's a nasty piece of work. His parents disinherited him after they found out he'd abused her. He barely scraped through college, and now he's involved with a bad crowd." "No one is trying to take Olivia away," he said, understanding. "Then I don't appreciate your attempt to insinuate that my friend would resort to theft to make ends meet. It's beneath you and the dignity of your profession.

You think you’ll make it in the world, working as a deputy in a Podunk county? You don’t appreciate how cruel and unforgiving the world is.” Uncle Truman and Aunt Louise took Thomas in as always. Truman was Mom’s brother, and he’d worked as a prison guard in Auburn, New York, though the man’s sleepy eyes and easy going demeanor made him a better fit for a librarian job. “Don’t take it to heart,” Uncle Truman had told him, sitting beside Thomas on the twin mattress as Aunt Louise carried an armful of sheets and blankets from the house. “They love you.” “They have a funny way of showing it.” Truman sighed and patted Thomas’s knee as though he was still in grade school. “Your father

In my kindergarten days, mom’s spirits and Spanish were secrets in her own home. Then she built a living medicine wheel—the circular herb garden—where she could take off the mask and speak to me honestly, without fearing condescension or misinterpretation. When she took my hand and shared her truth, I thought spirits and Spanish were the primary lessons. In Providence, Rhode Island, I belatedly wondered if creating safe space was a teaching I’d not yet appreciated. I recalled other protected places where truths had been bared.

Sometimes, when I talk to anxious parents, I get the impression they’ve misunderstood what I mean by grit. I tell them that half of grit is perseverance—in response, I get appreciative head nods—but I also tell them that nobody works doggedly on something they don’t find intrinsically interesting. Here, heads often stop nodding and, instead, cock to the side. “Just because you love something doesn’t mean you’ll be great,” says self-proclaimed Tiger Mom Amy Chua. “Not if you don’t work. Most people stink at the things they love.” I couldn’t agree more. Even in the development of your interests, there is work—practicing, studying, learning—to be done. Still, my point is that most people stink even more at what they don’t love.

My mom always said that everything in life has a counterpoint, and you need one to appreciate the other. So you have to be hungry to appreciate being full. You’ve got to be tired to appreciate rest. Your fear of losing something makes you appreciate how much you love it. That’s why it’s better to go through the hard things than to avoid them...because it’s going through them that makes you grateful for what you have.

I read online that it only takes around five minutes for the sun to set. It’s fleeting, and I think that’s why Mom had such an appreciation for it. We value the briefest moments most because they’re the ones that define us—a first kiss, a sudden death, an accident, a marriage proposal, a high . . .

I liked the guy more than I should have, but he would have to learn I wasn’t the object of a negotiation. I had thoughts and feelings and desires, and not one of them appreciated being disrespected. If he wanted to win me over, my opinion was the only one that mattered. Not my mom’s. Not my dad’s. Mine. And I would not be bullied into anything less. Bishop needed to understand that I wasn’t the pawn on his chessboard or even the king or queen. I was his opponent across the table. We both had equal stakes in the game, and cheating wouldn’t be tolerated, which was exactly what he’d done when he’d gone behind my back.

I liked the guy more than I should have, but he would have to learn I wasn’t the object of a negotiation. I had thoughts and feelings and desires, and not one of them appreciated being disrespected. If he wanted to win me over, my opinion was the only one that mattered. Not my mom’s. Not my dad’s. Mine. And I would not be bullied into anything less. Bishop needed to understand that I wasn’t the pawn on his chessboard or even the king or queen. I was his opponent across the table. We both had equal stakes in the game, and cheating wouldn’t be tolerated, which was exactly what he’d done when he’d gone behind my back. I needed to send him a message that he’d messed up—show him that he wasn’t the only one who could play dirty.

Thanks for letting me know, Mom. I didn't need the warning," he lied, "but I appreciate it. The town's big enough for the both of us. Hey, maybe we'll end up being friends again," he joked weakly.

Josh was a pizza bagel—his dad was literally, like, from Italy. His mom was mad thick. They appreciate women with some meat on their bones.

Because my mom can’t see her garden bloom each summer, I take extra time breathing mine in every year. Because my dad won’t ever get to read the new John Grisham, I’ll read it for him and appreciate the twists that much more. And because Emilia won’t ever get to grow old, I’m going to embrace every wrinkle and age spot.