Fellow Mom Quotes

I still think of Oregon Trail as a great leveler. If, for example, you were a twelve-year-old girl from Westchester with frizzy hair, a bite plate, and no control over your own life, suddenly you could drown whomever you pleased. Say you have shot four bison, eleven rabbits, and Bambi's mom. Say your wagon weighs 9,783 pounds and this arduous journey has been most arduous. The banker's sick. The carpenter's sick. The butcher, the baker, the algebra-maker. Your fellow pioneers are hanging on by a spool of flax. Your whole life is in flux and all you have is this moment. Are you sure you want to forge the river? Yes. Yes, you are.

I loved my mother, but oftentimes, I wondered if I liked her. I wondered if she wasn’t my mom if I’d like her as a fellow human.

My mom has shifted her focus on race from proving to black people that she is “down” to pressuring fellow white people to do better.

We get to choose whether we dole out praise or intentionally withhold it. We get to choose whether we build one another up or break each other down, whether we root for or against our fellow moms, our fellow artists, our fellow Kingdom builders.

I don’t think my father’s issue was with my mother in particular. He just didn’t like women. He thought they were stupid, inconsequential, irritating. That dumb bitch. It was his favorite phrase for any woman who annoyed him: a fellow motorist, a waitress, our grade school teachers, none of whom he ever actually met, parent-teacher conferences stinking of the female realm as they did. I still remember when Geraldine Ferraro was named the 1984 vice presidential candidate, us all watching it on the news before dinner. My mother, my tiny, sweet mom, put her hand on the back of Go’s head and said, Well, I think it’s wonderful. And my dad flipped the TV off and said, It’s a joke. You know it’s a goddamn joke. Like watching a monkey ride a bike.

A long-time associate, Beth, who likes to refer to herself as the 'Grill Bitch', excelled at putting loudmouths and fools into their proper place. She refused to behave any differently than her male co-workers: she'd change in the same locker area, dropping her pants right alongside them. She was as sexually aggressive, and as vocal about it, as her fellow cooks, but unlikely to suffer behavior she found demeaning. One sorry Moroccan cook who pinched her ass found himself suddenly bent over a cutting board with Beth dry-humping him from behind, saying, 'How do you like it, bitch?' The guy almost died of shame — and never repeated that mistake again. Another female line cook I had the pleasure of working with arrived at work one morning to find that an Ecuadorian pasta cook had decorated her station with some particularly ugly hard-core pornography of pimply-assed women getting penetrated in every orifice by pot-bellied guys with prison tattoos and back hair. She didn't react at all, but a little later, while passing through the pasta man's station, casually remarked. 'Jose, I see you brought in some photos of the family. Mom looks good for her age.

My tenseness isn’t coming from Wendy’s, it’s coming from Mom’s reasoning for suggesting Wendy’s. She knows I have money and could take her anywhere she’d like, and yet she chooses Wendy’s not because she likes it, but because she can go and tell her friends or fellow churchgoers how humble she is, how down to-earth, that even on a day as special as her birthday, all she did was eat a side salad from a fast food restaurant. This thing in Mom drives me nuts. This thing where she yearns to be pitied. She’s got stage four cancer, she’s already plenty pitied. She doesn’t need to throw Wendy’s on top of it.

America counts millions of Muslims amongst our citizens, and Muslims make an incredibly valuable contribution to our country. Muslims are doctors, lawyers, law professors, members of the military, entrepreneurs, shopkeepers, moms and dads. And they need to be treated with respect. . . . Those who feel like they can intimidate our fellow citizens to take out their anger don’t represent the best of America, they represent the worst of humankind, and they should be ashamed of that kind of behavior. This is a great country. It’s a great country because we share the same values of respect and dignity and human worth.

I recently told my mom about a hateful thing that had happened to me. Her response was to casually share a story I had never heard before. When she was new to the country, she was rammed by an irate fellow shopper in a grocery store, a random, race-motivated attack. Translation: What I had faced was nothing in comparison to how things used to be. According to my folks, I should get over it, because in the grand scheme of things, I am winning. But am I? Compared to what she had to face on the regular, yes. Compared to what I dream for myself, no. It is this personal accounting that gets me every time, listener friends. And here’s the truth of it all: Things are better for folks like me—the racialized, the marginalized, the Other. But because two truths can exist simultaneously in the universe, things are worse for us too. Real change is a boulder we keep pushing, but don’t fool yourself into thinking it doesn’t push back. Because it does. And sometimes it pushes back hard. In my parents’ time, simply being acknowledged as worthy of notice, as having your own history and worth, was enough. That’s not enough for me. I want to be included and celebrated. I want nuanced and plentiful stories to be told about my people, and I don’t want it to mean something when one of us breaks through, because there are so many of us breaking through, all the time, in every field.

But Max said: “Last summer I spent working these peace booths at state fairs. We’d go around in this bigole pickup with this knocked-down booth in the back and boxes of literature. People’d come up to me and hear me talking about colonialism or the bomb or who was responsible for the Cold War, and they’d start railing on Communists. Communists, these damn Communists. And I’d say hey, hold on now, you’re talkin’ about my mother. They’d look at me like I’d turned into a Russky before their very eyes. It certainly shut ’em up.” He smiled to remember, delighted. “They were good people. Country people. Didn’t want to say anything bad about a fellow’s mom.” Saul

Knowing Chris was getting married, his fellow Team members decided that they had to send him off with a proper SEAL bachelor party. That meant getting him drunk, of course. It also meant writing all over him with permanent markers-an indelible celebration, to be sure. Fortunately, they liked him, so his face wasn’t marked up-not by them, at least; he’d torn his eyebrow and scratched his lip during training. Under his clothes, he looked quite the sight. And the words wouldn’t come off no matter how he, or I scrubbed. I pretended to be horrified, but honestly, that didn’t bother me much. I was just happy to have him with me, and very excited to be spending the rest of my life with the man I loved. It’s funny, the things you get obsessed about. Days before the wedding, I spent forty-five minutes picking out exactly the right shape of lipstick, splurging on expensive cosmetics-then forgot to take it with me the morning of the wedding. My poor sister and mom had to run to Walgreens for a substitute; they came back with five different shades, not one of which matched the one I’d picked out. Did it matter? Not at all, although I still remember the vivid marks the lipstick made when I kissed him on the cheek-marking my man. Lipstick, location, time of day-none of that mattered in the end. What did matter were our families and friends, who came in for the ceremony. Chris liked my parents, and vice versa. I truly loved his mom and dad. I have a photo from that day taped near my work area. My aunt took it. It’s become my favorite picture, an accidental shot that captured us perfectly. We stand together, beaming, with an American flag in the background. Chris is handsome and beaming; I’m beaming at him, practically glowing in my white gown. We look so young, happy, and unworried about what was to come. It’s that courage about facing the unknown, the unshakable confidence that we’d do it together, that makes the picture so precious to me. It’s a quality many wedding photos possess. Most couples struggle to make those visions realities. We would have our struggles as well.

Amish Baked Oatmeal I would love to boast that I was taught how to make this breakfast dish by my Amish friend three farms over, but that isn’t the case. Instead, I learned how to make it from fellow homeschooling moms--which, if you don’t happen to live near an Amish community, is the next best thing. Homeschooling moms are rich with ideas for recipes that are quick, easy, nutritious, and gol-darn delicious…and that just so happens to be the exact Merriam-Webster definition for Amish Baked Oatmeal! This is pretty much an oatmeal cookie that decided to defect to the breakfast category, and I’m so very glad it did. It’s super easy to make, too!

I feel like one little fellow who knelt at the side of his bed, closed his eyes, and prayed, “God bless Mom. God bless Dad. God bless Grandma.” He said it the same way every time. But one night he added, “And please take care of yourself, God. ’Cause if anything happens to you, we’re all sunk!

As an author and fellow mom, my hope is that you see yourself reflected in these pages. By sharing and reading the experiences of others, my wish is that we can move forward as a generation of women who support one another, and who can work together to create a more stable system of support for the next generation.

I crunch the assigned reading in my shaking hand, an article titled “Dan Quayle was right.” It argued that children raised by single moms were destined for failure. Joined by my fellow students, we argue that our lives are not limited by our absent fathers. The teacher laughs awkwardly and backs away from our arguments. “For God’s sake, don’t take it personally.” The cardinal sin of women and oppressed people everywhere: taking their lives personally. - S.A. Williams

We made it, guys” Nathan whispers, turning back to us. The vault wasn’t very big; it probably cannot hold more than 50,000 dollars. “Grab the bags and start packing it in. Radio Tommy we are in; he can get ready to move. Tell limp we’re ready; be on the watch, with engine on.” “I heard that”, we hear over our earpieces. It’s Adrian. “Hehe, ya, I know.” We put the money in the bags and get to the door. We turn off the alarm for 60 more seconds; enough for all of us to get away and take the camera footage with us. We run to the street and jump in the dark green van that’s waiting at the corner of 5th with 10th. Adrian drives calmly, just like any soccer mom on her way to pick up her kids

I lay down My life for the sheep. —John 10:15 (NAS) Just before Easter, I made special efforts setting the dining room table. I’d purchased a pastel tablecloth with cute rabbits and decorated eggs on it. My ancient, flowered dishes, which had been my mother’s, blended in perfectly. For a centerpiece, I decided on a lavender, velveteen rabbit and purple irises from our yard. Still, I wasn’t quite satisfied with my handiwork. Something seemed to be missing. The back door opened and I heard, “Mom.” My son Jeremy had stopped by after getting off from work. We sat down in the living room. “Anything happen at the restaurant today?” “Yeah, it did. Today I served a fellow. We made small talk. He was alone. When I went to clear off his table, he handed me a bill. I almost just stuck it in my pocket. I don’t usually look at tips. But I did this time.” “And?” “A twenty!” “Wow.” “I ran after him, almost to his car. ‘Sir, you gave me a twenty by mistake.’ He turned to me, smiled, and said, ‘No mistake. I wanted you to have it.’ ‘But it’s way too much. You don’t have to do this.’ “Looking right into my eyes, he said, ‘Jesus didn’t have to go to the Cross either.’” After my son left, I found a small wooden cross and stood it by the purple irises on the dining room table. Jesus, keep me near the Cross—daily. —Marion Bond West Digging Deeper: 1 Cor 1:18; Gal 6:14; Col 2:14

BIG FEET, BIGGER HEART If anyone is poor among your fellow Israelites in any of the towns of the land the Lord your God is giving you, do not be hardhearted or tightfisted toward them. Rather, be openhanded and freely lend them whatever they need. Deuteronomy 15:7–8 Former NBA star Dikembe Mutombo is seven feet two and has size 22 feet. “I’ve no control over that. The Almighty has plans for us to make a place so we can go on and make a difference,” he said. “It all has to do with my faith; I am deeply religious. It goes back to my roots, to my mom and my dad.” Some estimate that he earned more than $100 million while playing with the Denver Nuggets and the Philadelphia 76ers. He didn’t blow the dough on fast cars and bling. Instead, he put the money in the bank and decided to give back. (He must know that the fastest way to double your money is to fold it in half and put it back in your wallet.) He created the Dikembe Mutombo Foundation and built a hospital and research center in the Congo, named after his mom, Biamba. In 1999, his mother had a stroke, just a couple of hours after talking to her son on the phone. Because she couldn’t get to a hospital, she died in her living room. He couldn’t even attend her funeral because of that nation’s civil war. Mutombo donated millions of his own money to create the hospital in honor of his mother and her faith. “I come from a large family, but I was not raised with a fortune,” he said. “Something more was left me, and that was family values.” SWEET FREEDOM IN Action Today, don’t listen to liberals when they mock “family values” like they’re some relic of an ancient past. Rather, pass them on to your kids and watch what God does to change the world.

knew. And his ex had seemed so kind on those first few dates, so infatuated with his Navy uniform, so enthusiastic in tearing up his bed. His ex-wife, a former stripper named Trish Bardoe, had married on the rebound a fellow by the name of Eddie Stipowicz, an unemployed engineer with a drinking problem. Lee thought she was heading for disaster and had tried to get custody of Renee on the grounds that her mom and stepfather could not provide for her. Well, about that time, Eddie, a sneaky runt Lee despised, invented, mostly by accident, some microchip piece of crap that had made him a gazillionaire. Lee’s custody battle had lost its juice after that. To add insult to injury, there had been stories on Eddie in the Wall Street Journal, Time, Newsweek and a number of other publications. He was famous. Their house had even been featured in Architectural Digest. Lee had gotten that issue of the Digest. Trish’s new home was grossly huge, mostly crimson red or eggplant so dark it made Lee think of the inside of a coffin. The windows were cathedral-size, the furniture large enough to become lost in and there were enough wood moldings, paneling and staircases to heat a typical midwestern town for an entire year. There were also stone fountains sculpted

She unwinds her scarf, taking so long about it that I wonder if she expects me to respond. “You were following the rules,” I offer after a minute. It makes her words no more pleasant. Resentment. Was that how she’d looked at me? Then how am I supposed to trust how she looks at me now? My words elicit a thankful smile. “Mostly, though, I knew you could do the job. Did you ever know other autistic people?” I shake my head. I’d heard rumors about one teacher, but never asked him. Mom had encouraged me to find a local support group, but I’d never seen the appeal—or the need. It wouldn’t change anything. I had friends, anyway. Peopleonline, my fellow volunteers at the Way Station. I even got along with Iris’s friends. “Well, I did, and I feel like a fool for never recognizing your autism. I had autistic colleagues at the university. They were accommodated, and they thrived. One researcher came in earlier than everyone else and would stay the longest. I saw the same strengths in you once I knew to look for them. You’re punctual, you’re precise, you’re trustworthy. When you don’t know something, you either figure it out or you ask, and either way, you get it right. I wanted to give you the same chance my colleagues had, and that other Nassau passengers got. One of the doctors is autistic—did you know?” Els silences an incoming call. “Does that answer your question?

Mom also believed that there is such a thing as a good secret. Maybe something kind you did for someone but didn’t want that person to know, because you didn’t want him to be embarrassed or feel as though he owed you anything. I thought back to a Harvard student of Mom’s, an aspiring playwright who won an award to travel in Europe—but the award didn’t exist. Mom had simply paid, anonymously, for him to have enough money to go on what turned out to be a life-changing trip. I write about this only because I was told that years later this fellow figured it all out, when he went to research who else had won this lucrative traveling fellowship and discovered that the answer was no one. As

knew he’d spoken the truth. It would be okay because Mr. Perfect would make it okay. The guy was responsible, dependable, a stand-up fellow. Hadn’t she rubbed it in, all the differences between Greg and Brody? Her boyfriend wouldn’t let her down. Guys like Greg Bannister had invented the phrase “do the right thing” just for this particular situation. In no time at all Brody’s office mom would be installed in whatever passed for suburban splendor in Alaska—a cozy split-level igloo perhaps, with a two-dogsled garage and a plastic flamingo out front. On the other side of the world, practically. Reflexively Brody pulled her closer. “I take it you haven’t done a pregnancy test yet.” She shook her head. “I want to wait until... well, I just want to wait.” “No more waiting. We’ll pick up one of those drugstore kits.” He pulled her up off the bench. “No.” “What do you mean, no? You’ve gotta find out.” “I will,” she said, “when I’m ready.” “Well, I’m ready now. Is there a pharmacy in this place?” He shooed away her hands when she tried to lift a bag, and grabbed the handles of all seven himself. They were awkward to carry and much too heavy for a mother-to-be, filled with a wrought-iron magazine rack, black marble bookends, and other household furnishings that reflected the taste of the

Why am I still speaking to them? Even after the tense three-hour conversation about race and law enforcement with Mom in June 2020 where neither of us changed our minds. Even after the two-hour argument with Dad about how the White House handled the coronavirus pandemic where I definitely went too far and he was about as mad as I’d ever seen him. Even after all that, why am I not only speaking to my parents, who are way on the other side of a political divide, but listening to them, learning from them, and enjoying their company? And why, when I say that my parents are Mexican immigrants who voted for Trump, do I not say the rest of it? Why am I both eager and afraid to tell my fellow Seattle liberals that I not only speak to my parents, but that I understand them? That if I were them, I would have voted for Donald Trump, too?

Whenever I meet a young Hoosier, I tell them, ‘You call me Mom.’” “Uh huh.” “Let me hear you say it,” she urged. “Mom?” She smiled and let go of my arm. Some piece of clockwork had completed its cycle. My calling Hazel “Mom” had shut it off, and now Hazel was rewinding it for the next Hoosier to come along. Hazel’s obsession with Hoosiers around the world was a textbook example of a false karass, of a seeming team that was meaningless in terms of the ways God gets things done, a textbook example of what Bokonon calls a granfalloon. Other examples of granfalloons are the Communist party, the Daughters of the American Revolution, the General Electric Company, the International Order of Odd Fellows—and any nation, anytime, anywhere.

Day Four: A Fellow Mystery Lover Dear Diary, Today I went to school, and nothing extremely exciting happened. Things went along pretty normally, so I usually wouldn’t write about it. I mean, I could glue my math homework in here if I really wanted to, but that would hardly make for a thrilling diary entry. No, I’m writing today because I think I made a new friend. I don’t know if it was clear up until now, but I don’t really have many friends. I mean, my mom is probably my best friend. I talk to some people around class and at recess and stuff, but for the most part, I like to keep to myself. Sure, it’s fun to understand people from the gossip that my mom brings home, but for some reason, I never really got the hang of making friends and getting to know people on a personal level. Today something changed. While I was at lunch, I had my tray of food in front of me, and a book in front of my nose. This was a pretty normal thing for me to do, especially on meatloaf surprise day. The surprise was that no one knew what kind of meat was in the loaf. I picked at it with my fork for a little while, but once it started to move I decided that I was done. I started to read my book, but that’s when someone sat across from me.

approaching her. “She’s-she’s out, I guess,” the girl replied, trying to sound confident but not succeeding. “But she should be back real soon.” The old man smiled again, more of a sneer, as he wavered slightly. “And that little shit brother of yours?” demanded her stepfather. “Where’s he at?” “I-I don’t know,” she mumbled. “No one was home when I got here.” “So it’s just you and me, huh, kiddo?” he mused, scratching his stubble thoughtfully as his cold bleary eyes wandered over the forms of her body beneath her thin, yellow sundress. “I’m sure Mom will be back real soon,” she repeated tearfully as she shrunk into the corner, shivering with terror. The old man grinned at her for a few seconds, then stepped back and pushed the door shut. As he returned, he started unbuttoning his jeans and retorted, “Well, girly, real soon is just not soon enough for me today. You’re just gonna have to fill your mama’s shoes.” The boy rolled away from the grill, not wanting to see what was taking place. His sister shrieked and several slaps were heard amidst a muttered “Quiet, little lady.” Covering his ears, the youngster cowered in the darkness and silently wept with frustration. But, what could he do? He was only ten. After a minute or two, the boy heard the bedroom door below swing open and slam shut and everything grew quiet. With tears in his eyes, he crawled forward and once again peered down through the grill. Their stepfather was gone but his sister was still there, lying on the bed, whimpering and shaking uncontrollably. Her dress was ripped and he could see her exposed breasts, scratched and bruised. Her left eye, just above the cheekbone, was already starting to swell from when the pig had hit her and the sheets were spattered with blood. He began to soundlessly weep once more as he vowed that he would get even when he was older. Chapter 1 - Tuesday, June 25, 1996 8:00 p.m. Sandy was at school, her last night of the spring term and would not be home for a while. She had mentioned that she would be going for a drink or two after class with a few fellow students to celebrate the completion of another semester. She would therefore most likely not be home before midnight. She never was on such occasions as she enjoyed these mini social events. With Sandy out, he was alone for the evening but this had never proved to be a problem in the past and this night would not be any different. He was perfectly capable of looking after himself and could always find a way to occupy his time. He pulled on some black Levi’s and a dark t-shirt, slipped into his black Reeboks and laced them securely. Leaving the bedroom, he descended to the main floor, headed for the foyer closet and retrieved his black leather jacket. No studs or chains, just black leather. He slipped into the coat and donned