Enjoying Motherhood Quotes

If a mother is mourning not for what she has lost but for what her dead child has lost, it is a comfort to believe that the child has not lost the end for which it was created. And it is a comfort to believe that she herself, in losing her chief or only natural happiness, has not lost a greater thing, that she may still hope to "glorify God and enjoy Him forever." A comfort to the God-aimed, eternal spirit within her. But not to her motherhood. The specifically maternal happiness must be written off. Never, in any place or time, will she have her son on her knees, or bathe him, or tell him a story, or plan for his future, or see her grandchild.

She caught herself working so hard at mothering that she forgot to enjoy her children. -from ~Homecoming Season~

Every child (regardless of age, or condition), should have three things: nature as a playground, a dog, and a mother willing to let her child enjoy them all.

While Motherhood is not perfect, we have the opportunity to share many beautiful and perfect moments with our children everyday. We just need to be awake to those moments and attuned to them so we can more fully enjoy them. ~ Mothering with Spiritual Power by Debra Sansing Woods

I'm getting stale. I always do this time of year. I keep my nose to the grindestone and put in long hours and rustle up good meals and do all the chores and run errands and get along with people -- and have a fine time doing it and enjoy life. Then I realize, bang, that I'm tired and I don't want to wait on my family for a while and I wish I could go away somewhere and have people wait on me hand and foot, and dress up and go to restaurants and the theater and act like a woman of the world. I feel as if I'd been swallowed up whole by all these powerful DeVotos and I'd like to be me for a while with somebody who never heard the name.

- It is clear that we have to come down a bit from the high horse of reason on which we enjoy sitting. We have to be simple and take time to think how to make things understandable to the little ones. We have to become children again, and some find that too hard.

Motherhood is when you find out exactly what kind of terrible person you are. Enjoy not knowing while you can

I was lounging in the kitchen, enjoying the small fermata between emptying the dishwasher and reloading it. It's a glamorous life.

The days may last forever, but the years pass by in a blink; the secret to survival is actually remembering to take a deep breath every now and then and enjoy ourselves along the way.

Just because I didn't have a spouse to help and enjoy those activities with didn't mean they couldn't happen. Just because my plan A didn't work out didn't mean plan B couldn't be really kickass. In fact, who was to tell me that my life as a single mother couldn't be completely wonderful.

Motherhood is a constant battle of going to bed early so you can catch up on sleep and staying awake so you can enjoy some peace and sanity!

When I view motherhood not as a gift from God to make me holy but rather as a role with tasks that get in my way, I am missing out on one of God’s ordained means of spiritual growth in my life. Not only that, but I am missing out on enjoying God. No amount of mommy angst can compare to the misery that comes from a life devoid of the comforting, encouraging, guarding, providing, satisfying presence of our holy God.

A few months ago on a school morning, as I attempted to etch a straight midline part on the back of my wiggling daughter's soon-to-be-ponytailed blond head, I reminded her that it was chilly outside and she needed to grab a sweater. "No, mama." "Excuse me?" "No, I don't want to wear that sweater, it makes me look fat." "What?!" My comb clattered to the bathroom floor. "Fat?! What do you know about fat? You're 5 years old! You are definitely not fat. God made you just right. Now get your sweater." She scampered off, and I wearily leaned against the counter and let out a long, sad sigh. It has begun. I thought I had a few more years before my twin daughters picked up the modern day f-word. I have admittedly had my own seasons of unwarranted, psychotic Slim-Fasting and have looked erroneously to the scale to give me a measurement of myself. But these departures from my character were in my 20s, before the balancing hand of motherhood met the grounding grip of running. Once I learned what it meant to push myself, I lost all taste for depriving myself. I want to grow into more of a woman, not find ways to whittle myself down to less. The way I see it, the only way to run counter to our toxic image-centric society is to literally run by example. I can't tell my daughters that beauty is an incidental side effect of living your passion rather than an adherence to socially prescribed standards. I can't tell my son how to recognize and appreciate this kind of beauty in a woman. I have to show them, over and over again, mile after mile, until they feel the power of their own legs beneath them and catch the rhythm of their own strides. Which is why my parents wake my kids early on race-day mornings. It matters to me that my children see me out there, slogging through difficult miles. I want my girls to grow up recognizing the beauty of strength, the exuberance of endurance, and the core confidence residing in a well-tended body and spirit. I want them to be more interested in what they are doing than how they look doing it. I want them to enjoy food that is delicious, feed their bodies with wisdom and intent, and give themselves the freedom to indulge. I want them to compete in healthy ways that honor the cultivation of skill, the expenditure of effort, and the courage of the attempt. Grace and Bella, will you have any idea how lovely you are when you try? Recently we ran the Chuy's Hot to Trot Kids K together as a family in Austin, and I ran the 5-K immediately afterward. Post?race, my kids asked me where my medal was. I explained that not everyone gets a medal, so they must have run really well (all kids got a medal, shhh!). As I picked up Grace, she said, "You are so sweaty Mommy, all wet." Luke smiled and said, "Mommy's sweaty 'cause she's fast. And she looks pretty. All clean." My PRs will never garner attention or generate awards. But when I run, I am 100 percent me--my strengths and weaknesses play out like a cracked-open diary, my emotions often as raw as the chafing from my jog bra. In my ultimate moments of vulnerability, I am twice the woman I was when I thought I was meant to look pretty on the sidelines. Sweaty and smiling, breathless and beautiful: Running helps us all shine. A lesson worth passing along.

When I was younger, I use to laugh at my mom when she was silly. Now that I'm older, I find myself just as silly as her. Thanks mom, for teaching us that even as adults, it's OK to be fun and enjoy life laughing. I now get to teach my nephews and stepdaughter the same thing.

When I wasn’t in the barn garden, helping out, sorting seeds or checking hoses I’d spend time alone, usually in the bathroom adjacent to Joel’s room, staring into the shattered mirror as my hand gently caressed my baby bump. More often than not I would cry. Not because my pregnancy upset me, or that my hormones were getting the better of me, but because I missed Joel, my baby’s father. That the baby would grow up without a dad made me anxious. Then again, if he had survived, what irreparable damage would he have suffered and how would his pain translate to his child? Jesus, I was studying myself in the very mirror he’d smashed the night he chose to take his own life. The bump had grown slowly in the last couple of months. With these limited resources, I didn’t have the privilege of eating whatever I craved. Had that been the case, I was sure I would have been bigger by now. Still, I tried to eat as well and as often as I could and the size of my belly had proven that my attempts at proper nutrition were at least growing something in there. Nothing made me happier than feeling my baby move. It was a constant source of relief for me. In our present circumstances, with no vitamins and barely any meat products save the recent stash of jerky Earl had found in an abandoned trailer, my diet consisted of berries, lettuce, and canned beans for the most part. Feeling the baby move inside me was an experience I often enjoyed alone. I would think of Joel then as well. Imagining his hand on my belly, with mine guiding his to the kicks and punches.

She thinks of her former job in a Hobart law firm. Right now, the thought of being in her quiet-as-a-library, air-conditioned, plush-carpeted city office, with a takeout coffee on the desk next to her and a tricky clause to unravel, is like remembering a glorious tropical holiday. She sees now that she didn’t just enjoy work, she loved it. She is a person whose brain requires certainty and control, rules and procedures, perhaps more than the average person, but motherhood has none of that and some days she is bored out of her freaking mind.

And yet, the perceived risk of jetting away, only slightly ahead of a new virus wave, is, in my mind, only incrementally greater than any other decision I make. My life as a single forty-six-year-old writer—outside of marriage, outside of motherhood, outside of payroll, outside of ritual, outside of, for the past year anyway, real-life human contact—is a life lived largely without a safety net. I am my own fallback. I play all the roles. I’m the person who thinks five steps ahead down all the paths, envisions the various outcomes, and then role-plays all the people I will have to be to solve it. Whether it is risky to get on a plane pales in comparison to what could potentially be more of this…not just isolation, but stagnancy. Total invisibility. Paralysis. Leaving feels less like a risk than a necessity.

Within the institution of patriarchal marriage, the following is true: A woman may be challenged with "unfitness" as a mother if she works outside the home and is thereby able to support her children (a threat to the economic basis of father-right). A woman who wishes to divorce her husband to marry another man is tolerated more readily than a woman who leaves a marriage in order to be separate and self-sufficient, or because she finds marriage itself an oppresive institution. (...) Motherhood is identified with nurture, fatherhood with the moment of conception and with economic power. (...) "Father -right" is seen as one specific form of the rights men are presumed to enjoy simply because of their gender: the "right to the priority of male over female needs, to sexual and emotional services from women (...) The husband's "rights" over his wife are, in social terms, all inclusive; they can be whatever the man defines them to be at any given moment: all inclusive "rights" of men to the bodies, emotions, and services of women.

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 a constant battle of wanting to go to bed early so you can catch up on sleep and wanting to stay awake so you can enjoy some peace and sanity!

But what is the church here on earth for? It is here to proclaim the love of God, to bear witness to what He has done for us. Our duty as wives is to help our husbands. Part of that duty is to help our husbands love our children. Let me hasten to clarify that last little bit. I don’t mean that you are to help him love the kids your way. I mean that you are to help him convey his love to them. When your husband goes off to work, he is loving his family. When he brings home a paycheck, he is loving his family. But if there is no mother taking that paycheck and translating it into a hot meals, into clothes for the children, into the comfort of home, then the children may very well not feel that love from their father. It is a mother’s job to communicate the love that the father has towards his children. It is our job to translate. When we take the work that our husband does and turn it into fellowship around the table, he is able to enjoy both the fruit of his work and the enjoyment of his love. He provided for us, and we are rejoicing in that.

God overlooks so much in us. If the Holy Spirit convicted us of every sin, every day, every time, we would be miserable people. But He is longsuffering toward us and delights to show mercy. He does not overwhelm us with correction and commands, but gently leads us and chastens us. This kind of discipline "yields the peaceable fruit of righteousness" (Heb. 12:11), but the mother who whips her child with her tongue day in and day out will yield a crop of bitterness and resentment and probably rebellion as well. We want our children to enjoy their family, their time at home, their time around the table. "But surely every little failure need not be censured," says Matthew Henry. If they are berated and accused and constantly corrected, their lives will be a grief to them, not a joy. They should receive lots of love, encouragement, and praise, not just correction.

I grew up in the UK but come from a culturally conservative, religious, and ethnic minority background – simply stating out loud that I enjoy sex is still taboo. Astride two cultures, I have had no choice but to challenge the contradictions placed in front of me most of my life. In that context, this book is my act of rebellion. It lays to rest the suffocating expectations placed on me around marriage, motherhood and the supposed passivity of female sexuality.

he knew she enjoyed presenting a controlled image of motherhood, one that legitimised the sticky, chaotic reality.

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.

If we didn’t put so much pressure on our children to accomplish what they were never intended to, I think we’d enjoy them a lot more.

The joys of today's motherhood are true joys, but they are like shadowy reflections in a mirror. At the end of every day -- chaotic and mundane alike -- motherhood is about the adoration and enjoyment of our great God.

10 Must-Do’s for Kids with Seasonal Allergie – Motherhood Chaitanya Hospital As the seasons change and flowers bloom, so does the risk of seasonal allergies for our little ones. Those pesky sneezes, sniffles, and itchy eyes can put a damper on their outdoor adventures. But fear not, for with a little care and guidance, you can help your child breeze through allergy season. Let’s explore the 10 must-do’s for kids with seasonal allergies, ensuring they can enjoy the great outdoors without the hassle.

want a life partner who cherishes my kids and pursues me with a desire that won’t stray with temptation. I want to laugh through the storms, dance in the rain, and enjoy new adventures beyond motherhood.

Being told to "enjoy every minute," while undertaking such psychologically and physically demanding work, is a peculiar type of societal gaslighting.

You were called to the job of motherhood long before you began homeschooling. Your older kids have the rest of their lives to learn division facts and participial phrases, but your toddler will only be little for a short time. In the busyness of the school day, don’t just “occupy” your smallest gifts, enjoy them, invest in them, delight in them.

At the end of every day—chaotic and mundane alike—motherhood is about the adoration and enjoyment of our great God. The

But this is the real world....while practice and training and preventative measures might make things flow more smoothly, they won't necessarily make things easier. It is simply going to be hard work. If you trained as a runner, you would get better and better at running the same race over time. You would speed up. Your form would be better. You would probably enjoy yourself more. But it wouldn't be easy. Professional athletes make what they do look easy. But if they are still pushing themselves, it is still hard. ....We think that if we were doing motherhood right, then it wouldn't be this hard. Of course there are a lot of ways to improve what we do, to make things easier. But that's like improving a runner's form. You still have to run, and it still won't be easy.

but Kailigh preferred her daughters enjoy their childhood to the fullest before sampling the responsibilities of motherhood and running a household. And a man.

The changes I saw in my body as a result of being pregnant now seem to pale in comparison to the changes I’ve seen in my personality as I have embraced motherhood. The ability to truly understand the pressures of motherhood cannot be understood unless you are a mother. You’re not alone in this, Mom! Your value as a mother is unsurpassed. You haven’t lost yourself; you’ve found who you were destined to become. You’ve been given lives to mold and an opportunity to prepare your children for the future. There is nothing “just a mom” about you.

Like the distinction between a map and a sense of territory, a differentiation can also be made between a clock and temporal experience.2 Time may elude us when we enjoy ourselves; it may feel like an eternity when we are waiting; there is not enough of it when we are busy, and too much of it when idleness is imposed on us. It is also often sheathed in the “internal time” of memories, daydreaming, nightmares, and flashbacks, all of which can be triggered by visual images, scents, or even listening to music. This internal time machine can take us back to other moments and days, while shattering our perception of sequential continuity.

We put undue pressure on our kids to keep us happy (or at least to behave well so we can pretend to be happy). But this expectation is misaligned. The truth is, if we are living by emotions that are based on circumstances, we will inevitably be disappointed. If we didn’t put so much pressure on our children to accomplish what they were never intended to, I think we’d enjoy them a lot more.

Where am I going with all this? I’m merely stating that it’s all right to say no. To all the young mothers out there who are beginning to feel the pressure to sign your preschooler up for soccer, basketball, or gymnastics simply because everyone else is, you have a choice. If your child shows an interest in or a talent for something, then, by all means, foster that. Encourage it. And sign him up. But if not, if your little one has no interest in soccer or basketball or gymnastics, then allow her to find her own interests and activities. Don’t feel pressured to spend precious hours of your little one's childhood sitting in a gym or at a soccer field just because you think that’s what you’re supposed to do. You have a choice. Put it in perspective. And enjoy your children's childhood, because it goes by so very quickly. Your memories remain. Make them happy ones. Be it sports or art or movies or childcare, let your child find his or her own thing. Put it in perspective. And enjoy. Stoltz, BillieJo. Afternoon Coffee: Thoughts on Motherhood, Family, Home, and All Things Cozy . Kindle Edition. Stoltz, BillieJo. Afternoon Coffee: Thoughts on Motherhood, Family, Home, and All Things Cozy . Kindle Edition.

Dear Mothers Everywhere! First and foremost - enjoy your children! Rediscover the world with them, as they revel in the mundane and everyday world you've long since taken for granted. Revel in that most mysterious and marvelous thing called maturation. Revel in their infinite capacity to unconditionally trust and love you as no other living thing possibly could. And when you catch yourself taking that for granted, pause. Breathe them in - and revel in the never failing ways your children just keep it -and you - real.

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Mother left us alone to enjoy our own company while she enjoyed hers and reclaimed precious time for herself. When she wasn't living her solitude, she was contemplating it.