Mommy And Baby Quotes

Congratulations, Mommy," I say, dropping the doll into his hands. "You could've told me I knocked you up." "My bad. I thought you'd force me to get an abortion," Henry replies, taking the baby and cradling it as if it's real. "He has your eyes, Woods." "And your hair." The doll is bald. "Can we name him Joe Montana?" "Hells no, his name is Jerry Rice." "No, his name is Joe Montana." "I was in labor with him for fourteen hours!" Henry exclaims as he rocks the baby back and forth. “His name is Jerry Rice." I grin. "Fine.

New mothers enter the world of parenting feeling much like Alice in Wonderland. - Being a mother is one of the most rewarding jobs on earth and also one of the most challenging. - Motherhood is a process. Learn to love the process. - There is a tremendous amount of learning that takes place in the first year of your baby’s life; the baby learns a lot, too. - It is sometimes difficult to reconcile the fantasy of what you thuoght motherhood would be like, and what you thought you would be like as a mother, with reality. - Take care of yourself. If Mommy isn’t happy, no one else in the family is happy either. - New mother generally need to lower their expectations. - A good mother learns to love her child as he is and adjusts her mothering to suit her child.

Daddy? Daddy, I know the baby is in the mommy‟s tummy and the baby comes out of the mommy‟s tummy, but, Daddy? How do that baby get in the mommy‟s tummy?

What did I do to make Mommy leave?” “You didn’t do anything. This isn’t your fault.” “Then why?” she’d wailed. “I don’t know,” her daddy had said, and he looked so sad. “It isn’t fair!” “No, it isn’t, baby. Not by a mile. The world’s only as fair as you can make it. Takes a lot of fight. A lot of fight. But if you stay in here, in your own little cave, that’s one less fighter on the side of fair.

Now that we all have partners, all husbands should come pick up their projects." Pick up our project? Shrugging, I stand up and stretch my arms. Henry also stands. "No way, dude," I say. "I'm the man in this relationship." "Oh yeah, absolutely," he says, grinning. He sits back down as I walk to the closet to see this project, which turns out to be one of those fake electronic babies. Oh good God. Ms. Bonner hands me a fake baby boy. The doll has these creepy glass eyes that look like they’re staring straight into my soul. I hold the doll out in front of me like it's a flaming bag of poo and carry it back to Henry. "Congratulations, Mommy," I say, dropping the doll into his hands. You could've told me I knocked you up.

All these young mothers chauffeuring their volcanic three-year-olds through the grocery store. The child's name always sounds vaguely presidental, and he or she tends to act accordingly. "Mommy hears what you're saying about treats," the woman will say, "But right now she needs you to let go of her hair and put the chocolate-covered Life Savers back where they came from." "No!" screams McKinley or Madison, Kennedy or Lincoln or beet-faced baby Reagan. Looking on, I always want to intervene. "Listen," I'd like to say, "I'm not a parent myself, but I think the best solution at this point is to slap that child across the face. It won't stop its crying, but at least now it'll be doing it for a good reason.

It’s my turn to feed him,” Gray says without looking up. “So bottled breast milk it is. He hates it. I know, little dude,” he says to the baby. “I love Mommy’s boobs too, but she needs to sleep.” From the far room, a muffled groan rings out. “Mother guilt has killed my sleep,” says Ivy’s disembodied voice. “And don’t discuss my boobs with my son, Cupcake.

He smiled. "You’re into me, I can tell." "I’m not into you," I said hotly. Hotly, because as soon as the words left my lips, sparklers erupted on top of my head. Hudson looked at them, and a grin spread across his face. The baby cooed and reached out, trying to grab the flaring light. Hudson moved farther away. "Don’t touch. Just look at Mommy’s pretty liar hat." He was enjoying this way too much. "Okay," I said. "Maybe I like you a little." The sparklers dimmed, but didn’t go out. Hudson raised an eyebrow. "All right," I said, nervously eyeing the area to make sure no one saw us. "I’m into you." The sparklers died, but I didn’t wait around for more commentary. I headed to the inn. Behind me I heard Hudson still talking to the baby. "Yes, we like Mommy’s flaming hairdo, don’t we?

Cohen starts smiling and nods his head.  “This is good, Daddy.  I knew my angels would give me sisters.  I asked them.”  Melissa stops laughing and grabs my hand.  “What do you mean, baby?” she asks on a whisper. “I asked Nana, Mommy Fia, and Auntie Grace to give me a sister.  I said I wanted a sister more than anything in the world so I can look out for her like Daddy looks out for you.

If somebody had taken a baby picture, it would’ve shown homely little Hephaestus plummeting through the clouds with a surprised look on his face like, MOMMY, WHY?

Then Tylar, I suggest we stop fucking,” he replied, a look of sincere concern on his handsome face. “I’d hate for our child to hear some of the things that Mommy screams when Daddy hits her special spot.

This is your baby sister, Christian. Her name is Mia.” Mommy lets me hold her. She is very small. With black, black hair. She smiles. She has no teeth. I stick out my tongue. She has a bubbly laugh. Mommy lets me hold the baby again. Her name is Mia. I make her laugh. I hold her and hold her. She is safe when I hold her. Elliot is not interested in Mia. She dribbles and cries. And he wrinkles his nose when she does a poop. When Mia is crying Elliot ignores her. I hold her and hold her and she stops. She falls asleep in my arms. “Mee a,” I whisper. “What did you say?! Mommy asks, and her face is white like a chalk. “Mee a.” “Yes. Yes. Darling boy. Mia. Her name is Mia.” And Mommy starts to cry with happy, happy tears.

As long as it’s BYOB, I’m cool,” Tuck answers. “And if Danny is coming then you better lock up the liquor cabinet.” “We can move the hooch to G’s room,” Logan says with a snort. “God knows he won’t drink a drop of it.” Tuck glances over at me with a grin. “Poor baby. When are you gonna learn to handle your liquor like a man?” “Hey, I handle the drinking part just fine. It’s the morning after that does me in.” I smirk at my teammates. “Besides, I’m your captain. Somebody has to stay sober to keep your crazy asses in line.” “Thanks, Mom.” Logan pauses, then shakes his head. “Actually, no, you’re the mom,” he tells Tucker, grinning at Tuck’s apron before turning back at me. “Guess that makes you the dad. You two are positively domestic.” We both flip him the finger. “Aw, are Mommy and Daddy mad at me?” He gives a mock gasp. “Are you guys gonna get a divorce?” “Fuck off,” Tuck says, but he’s laughing. The microwave beeps, and Tucker pulls out the defrosted chicken, then proceeds to cook our dinner while I do my homework at the counter. And damned if the whole thing isn’t domestic as hell.

Hola, hola, mi pequeño ángel con alas de mariposa

Wrinkles was her big gray cat. Sierra named him Wrinkles because when he was a little baby he had a wrinkly face. He slept in Sierra's room, but not always on the bed. Mommy said that was 'cause Wrinkles had an attitude. Most cats had attitudes, actually.

The changes that happen in the mommy brain are the most profound and permanent of a woman’s life. For as long as her child is living under her roof, her GPS system of brain circuits will be dedicated to tracking that beloved child. Long after the grown baby leaves the nest, the tracking device continues to work. Perhaps this is why so many mothers experience intense grief and panic when they lose day-to-day contact with the person their brain tells them is an extension of their own reality.

Well Abby, it’s not as simple as that. I hate to see you sad sweetheart, but it’s not that bad of a deal just having mommy is it? Are you not happy with me?” I hoped that this would throw her off her the questioning for a little while. It’s not that I never thought about dating, actually I take that back, it’s exactly that and I didn’t know how to get my mindset any differently. Abby looked at me, her baby blues delving deep into my soul “But, you deserve to be happy, too.” she whispered.

If you can pick the baby up without him squirting our of your hands like a bar of soap in the shower, he's not oiled up enough.

Daddy is jive talking and showering the stripper Mommy is sleepwalking while changing baby's diaper

Now that she knew the name of the game - Scare Mommy - she should be able to defend herself. But goosebumps rose on her skin, even under the heat of the water, when she thought about her creepy daughter. The whites of her eyes. Her ability to sneak up on her as she slept.

Because the media always serve up heroes and villians, there had to be the terrible mothers, the anti-Madonnas, the hideous counterexamples good mothers were meant to revile. We regret to report that nearly all of these women were African American and were disproportionately featured as failed mothers in news stories about "crack babies," single, teen mothers, and welfare mothers.

Can I have baby cows?” Meg asked. “Well, Meg,” I said, “first you would have to have some mommy cows. You see—” “Guys,” Percy interrupted. “So, just to recap, you have to be Meg’s servant for…?” “Some unknown amount of time,” I said. “Probably a year. Possibly more.” “And during that time —” “I will undoubtedly face many trials and hardships.” “Like getting me my cows,” Meg said. I gritted my teeth.

Mommy set the phone aside as Liam whined and plucked at her shirt. “Are you hungry?” she asked gently. He nodded. “I can’t nurse you when you’re like this, sweetheart, not with all of those razor-sharp teeth.” That was the saddest thing he had ever heard in his whole life. He lifted his head and looked at her, grief stricken.

According to Crittenden, young women today are deeply unhappy and confused because they ignored the siren song of the new momism and instead followed the really bad advice of their feminist mothers, who allegedly told their girls to forget marriage and motherhood. Instead, feminist mothers supposedly insisted that happiness only comes to those who climb the corporate ladder by impaling men's balls on their Ferragamo heels. (We are both card-carrying members of the feminist axis of evil, and we know of no mothers of twenty- and thirty-something daughters who have said, "Honey, I definitely do not want grandchildren. I want you to get that promotion and work seventy hours a week instead of sixty." Having heeded their feminist mothers' advice, these loser young women have "postponed marriage and childbirth to pursue their careers only to find themselves at thirty-five still single and baby-crazy, with no husband in sight." (No mention of the fact that once you remove the 10 percent of guys who are gay, and the other 30 percent who are snorting wasabi till they puke because they saw it on Jackass, the pickings can be slim.)

I thought my role was to protect Tish from pain, so I ended up teaching her that disaster was just around the corner. By shielding her constantly, I taught her how to be afraid. I taught her to hide. I taught her that she was not capable of handling what life might bring. Be careful, baby, be careful, baby, come here, honey. Mommy will protect you.

Read between the lines, Richard. She said Mommy, I don't want this motherfucking baby born on my birthday month.

Where’s the baby?” “In Mommy’s tummy for right now.” A horrified look crossed Rose Marie’s face as she gaped at her mother. “Mommy! You ate the baby?

Before the end of the week, Fudge asked the big question. “How did the baby get inside you, Mommy?” So

Cairo's First Halloween had to be perfect, but his mom couldn't decide on just one costume.

I want to kill you!!!’ said crazy mommy of newborn baby!

Aw, look at the poor, little rich girl. Her mommy and daddy let her have anything she wanted, but they didn’t hold her hand or kiss and hug her every day. Poor baby.

Sad White Babies with Mean Feminist Mommies.

Jannie can be the new mother,” Sally said largely, “and Mommy and I will just be the babies and Laurie is the queen and Daddy is a herd of rabbits.

In fact, these “bad mother with a briefcase” images are so prevalent that writer Jessica Valenti collected them in a funny and poignant blog post called “Sad White Babies with Mean Feminist Mommies.”25

Hanna kept her words to herself because they gave her power. Inside her, they retained their purity. She scrutinized Mommy and other adults, studied them. Their words fell like dead bugs from their mouths. A rare person, like Daddy, spoke in butterflies, whispering colors that made her gasp. Inside, she was a kaleidoscope of racing, popping, bursting exclamations, full of wonder and question marks. Patterns swirled, and within every secret pocket she’d stashed a treasure, some stolen, some found.

If there is anything that makes me not want to have another baby, it is this essential conflict, this hatred of being trapped in laundry, bottles, schedules, tiny runny noses. But none of this is about you: I don’t wish you were never born, I don’t resent you, I don’t want to give you away. I just wish I could have a break longer than the hour or so that is your nap. I wish I could have my time back, my body back. I wish there was a better division of labor than Daddy when he has time and Mommy all day, all night.

of the problem was that Chaos got a little creation-happy. It thought to its misty, gloomy self: Hey, Earth and Sky. That was fun! I wonder what else I can make. Soon it created all sorts of other problems—and by that I mean gods. Water collected out of the mist of Chaos, pooled in the deepest parts of the earth, and formed the first seas, which naturally developed a consciousness—the god Pontus. Then Chaos really went nuts and thought: I know! How about a dome like the sky, but at the bottom of the earth! That would be awesome! So another dome came into being beneath the earth, but it was dark and murky and generally not very nice, since it was always hidden from the light of the sky. This was Tartarus, the Pit of Evil; and as you can guess from the name, when he developed a godly personality, he didn't win any popularity contests. The problem was, both Pontus and Tartarus liked Gaea, which put some pressure on her relationship with Ouranos. A bunch of other primordial gods popped up, but if I tried to name them all we’d be here for weeks. Chaos and Tartarus had a kid together (don’t ask how; I don’t know) called Nyx, who was the embodiment of night. Then Nyx, somehow all by herself, had a daughter named Hemera, who was Day. Those two never got along because they were as different as…well, you know. According to some stories, Chaos also created Eros, the god of procreation... in other words, mommy gods and daddy gods having lots of little baby gods. Other stories claim Eros was the son of Aphrodite. We’ll get to her later. I don’t know which version is true, but I do know Gaea and Ouranos started having kids—with very mixed results. First, they had a batch of twelve—six girls and six boys called the Titans. These kids looked human, but they were much taller and more powerful. You’d figure twelve kids would be enough for anybody, right? I mean, with a family that big, you’ve basically got your own reality TV show. Plus, once the Titans were born, things started to go sour with Ouranos and Gaea’s marriage. Ouranos spent a lot more time hanging out in the sky. He didn't visit. He didn't help with the kids. Gaea got resentful. The two of them started fighting. As the kids grew older, Ouranos would yell at them and basically act like a horrible dad. A few times, Gaea and Ouranos tried to patch things up. Gaea decided maybe if they had another set of kids, it would bring them closer…. I know, right? Bad idea. She gave birth to triplets. The problem: these new kids defined the word UGLY. They were as big and strong as Titans, except hulking and brutish and in desperate need of a body wax. Worst of all, each kid had a single eye in the middle of his forehead. Talk about a face only a mother could love. Well, Gaea loved these guys. She named them the Elder Cyclopes, and eventually they would spawn a whole race of other, lesser Cyclopes. But that was much later. When Ouranos saw the Cyclops triplets, he freaked. “These cannot be my kids! They don’t even look like me!” “They are your children, you deadbeat!” Gaea screamed back. “Don’t you dare leave me to raise them on my own!

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

Attachment mothering is not martyr mothering. Don’t think that AP means baby pulls Mommy’s string and she jumps. Because of the trust that develops between attached parents and their attached children, parents’ response time gradually lengthens as baby gains the ability to control himself. Then mother jumps only when it’s an emergency.

You know what that is, baby?” Mom asked, pointing toward the door at the end of the hall. “Do – door,” I said. “We’re going through that door, Wyatt, okay?” I nodded. “Can you do something for me when we go through that door?” Another nod from me. “Whatever you do, do not look down, okay? Keep your eyes on mommy. Do. Not. Look. Down.” For

She couldn’t understand why she was supposed to be a robot and follow endless hours of obeying an evil master’s routine—even more rigid than Mommy’s. She wanted to be master of her own schedule, decide on her own when and where she sat. To think that children everywhere sat at similar desks in similar rooms following similar routines like they were all supposed to grow up and become the same person.

I bit the inside of my cheek until it hurt and I looked away from her. “He couldn’t sit with me in the bathroom and watch the little pink line show up on the stick or put his hand to my belly and feel his baby kicking. He wouldn’t be able to come with me to ultrasounds or hold my hand while I push. This is a man who wants to be a daddy, Sloan. And I’m never going to be a mommy. It just is what it is.

As her vision flickered one last time, the man was gone; it was her mother looking into her eyes. Her mother’s eyes were filled with so much love that it seemed to release her from her pain and fear as it did when she was a small child. Her mother cradled her as a baby, rocking her back and forth. She was safe now in her mother’s arms. She was at peace. Mommy, her heart sang, you’re here to save me.

All at once I was standing at our front window one day, looking down at the driveway, and Natalie was buckling the baby into the car. This was a Volvo wagon her parents had given us when Opal was born. And I watched her shut the passenger door and walk around to the driver’s side, and I said to myself, ‘Why, great God in heaven! I seem to have married one of those station wagon mommies!’ So we got divorced.

There are basic differences between food and clothing. You eat food and wear clothing. Food goes in; clothing goes on. 2. Do not bite anything that will bite back. This includes the dog, other babies, electrical cords and your father when he is watching professional football on television. 3. Washing your face after a meal is not considered cruel and unusual punishment. It won’t do any good to report Mommy and Daddy to the police. 4.

I know, baby,” she said, “and it’s okay to be scared, but remember what we talked about? Remember what Mommy said about what to do when something scares you?” “Name it,” she whispered. “Exactly.” Her mother’s smile softened. “If you give the monster a name, it takes away its power, because we’re really just afraid of what we don’t know. If you name it, if you know what it is, you can be stronger than it. So face your fears and wipe your tears, remember? Face your fears and wipe your tears.

Aun’ Emmy?” Hayden piped up in her little voice. “Yeah, baby doll?” I asked her, giving her a quick squeeze as she cuddled into my side on the couch. “Whas’ a gorgamsm?” “A what?” I asked her, not understanding what she said. “A gorgamsm. I heared Mommy talkin’ bout it on the ‘pone. Whas’ is it?” “Um, I’m not sure, honey. What did Mommy say about it on the phone?” I asked, kinda scared about the answer I would get. “Hers said it was sumfing that my Daddy gived her an’ it was ‘mazin’ an’ made her toes curled up. If I have a gorgamsm will my toes curled up, too?

At the same time that middle- and upper-middle-class mothers were urged to pipe Mozart into their wombs when they're pregnant so their kids would come out perfectly tuned, the government told poor mothers to get the hell out of the house and get to work--no more children's aid for them. Mothers like us--with health care, laptops, and Cuisinarts--are supposed to replicate the immaculate bedrooms we see in Pottery Barn Kids catalogs, with their designer sheets and quilts, one toy and one stuffed animal atop a gleaming white dresser, and a white rug on the floor that has never been exposed to the shavings from hamster cages, Magic Markers accidentally dropped with their caps off, or Welche's grape juice.... we've been encouraged to turn our backs on other mothers who pick their kids' clothes out of other people's trash and sometimes can't buy a can of beans to feed them. How has it come to seem perfectly reasonable--even justified-- that one class of mother is suppoed to sew her baby's diapers out of Egyptian cotton from that portion of the Nile blessed by the god Osiris while another class of mother can't afford a single baby aspirin?

Check the baby and then teach that idiot a lesson in manners.” “I do so love it when you go all soldier on me.” “Quit flirting with me and get the job done.” “You started it by blowing up the house,” he pointed out righteously. Dutifully he took another look at Sebastian. The bouncing of the Humvee didn’t seem to bother him, although he did open his eyes to stare at his father through narrow, sleep slits. “We’re fine, son,” Kane soothed. “Mommy’s a terrible driver, but she’s having fun, so we’ll overlook it this once.” Sebastian’s little bow of a mouth curved in a smile, and his eyes closed.

I’m not sure why, but all of a sudden I started to cry. Mom put the book down and wrapped her arms around me. She didn’t seem surprised that I was crying. “It’s okay,” she whispered in my ear. “It’ll be okay.” “I’m sorry,” I said between sniffles. “Shh,” she said, wiping my tears with the back of her hand. “You have nothing to be sorry about. …” “Why do I have to be so ugly, Mommy?” I whispered. “No, baby, you’re not …” “I know I am.” She kissed me all over my face. She kissed my eyes that came down too far. She kissed my cheeks that looked punched in. She kissed my tortoise mouth. She said soft words that I know were meant to help me, but words can’t change my face.

Lance, cut Jaylynn to stretch her out, to get the baby away from this new mommy, with the same pair of dull school scissors. At that time, he took the helpless baby away from her, and said that he was going to get rid of it… and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Furthermore, he just let Jaylynn there sitting on the toilet to bleed to death, I guess that is when she had enough pain, and not long after that, she cut her wrist… and I lost two girls… to the curse of the Tower! Maybe that is when my struggle with affection began. Raged Lance or as I called him walked away, but later that year he put a rifle in his mouth, and he blew his brains, and other things, all over his bedroom walls, on a life-size poster of my little daughter.

In attunement, it is the infant who leads and the mother who follows. “Where their roles differ is in the timing of their responses,” writes John Bowlby, one of the century’s great psychiatric researchers. The infant initiates the interaction or withdraws from it according to his own rhythms, Bowlby found, while the “mother regulates her behaviour so that it meshes with his... Thus she lets him call the tune and by a skillful interweaving of her own responses with his creates a dialogue.” The tense or depressed mothering adult will not be able to accompany the infant into relaxed, happy spaces. He may also not fully pick up signs of the infant’s emotional distress, or may not be able to respond to them as effectively as he would wish. The ADD child’s difficulty reading social cues likely originates from her relationship cues not being read by the nurturing adult, who was distracted by stress. In the attunement interaction, not only does the mother follow the child, but she also permits the child to temporarily interrupt contact. When the interaction reaches a certain stage of intensity for the infant, he will look away to avoid an uncomfortably high level of arousal. Another interaction will then begin. A mother who is anxious may react with alarm when the infant breaks off contact, may try to stimulate him, to draw him back into the interaction. Then the infant’s nervous system is not allowed to “cool down,” and the attunement relationship is hampered. Infants whose caregivers were too stressed, for whatever reason, to give them the necessary attunement contact will grow up with a chronic tendency to feel alone with their emotions, to have a sense — rightly or wrongly — that no one can share how they feel, that no one can “understand.” Attunement is the quintessential component of a larger process, called attachment. Attachment is simply our need to be close to somebody. It represents the absolute need of the utterly and helplessly vulnerable human infant for secure closeness with at least one nourishing, protective and constantly available parenting figure. Essential for survival, the drive for attachment is part of the very nature of warm-blooded animals in infancy, especially. of mammals. In human beings, attachment is a driving force of behavior for longer than in any other animal. For most of us it is present throughout our lives, although we may transfer our attachment need from one person — our parent — to another — say, a spouse or even a child. We may also attempt to satisfy the lack of the human contact we crave by various other means, such as addictions, for example, or perhaps fanatical religiosity or the virtual reality of the Internet. Much of popular culture, from novels to movies to rock or country music, expresses nothing but the joys or the sorrows flowing from satisfactions or disappointments in our attachment relationships. Most parents extend to their children some mixture of loving and hurtful behavior, of wise parenting and unskillful, clumsy parenting. The proportions vary from family to family, from parent to parent. Those ADD children whose needs for warm parental contact are most frustrated grow up to be adults with the most severe cases of ADD. Already at only a few months of age, an infant will register by facial expression his dejection at the mother’s unconscious emotional withdrawal, despite the mother’s continued physical presence. “(The infant) takes delight in Mommy’s attention,” writes Stanley Greenspan, “and knows when that source of delight is missing. If Mom becomes preoccupied or distracted while playing with the baby, sadness or dismay settles in on the little face.

Well,” Kristy went on, “the pediatrician says Emily isn’t making as much progress as she’d expected. Plus, Emily has some emotional problems. She’s started having these nightmares — at least, we think she’s having nightmares — and she wakes up screaming. ‘Me! Me!’” (Kristy pronounced the word as if she were saying “met,” but leaving the “t” off the end.) “‘Me,’” she informed us, “is what Vietnamese children say for ‘Mama’ or ‘Mommy.’ Plus, she seems scared of everything: the dark, loud noises, trying new things, and being separated from any of us, especially Mom and Watson. Doctor Dellenkamp isn’t too worried about the fears, even though Mom and Watson are. The doctor says the fears are a delayed reaction to all the upheaval in Emily’s life. You know, losing her mother, going to the orphanage, getting adopted, moving to a new country. The doctor says Emily will outgrow the fears and nightmares. She’s more worried about Emily’s speech, and even how she plays. She says she doesn’t play like a two-year-old yet. She still thinks Emily will catch up, though.

A sob pops in my throat. I choke it, and look around for a harmless visual distraction, but all I see is a stocky young woman with a baby, a few seats up. The baby is pulling the woman's hair, and she is faking this look of terror. 'Oh no', she says, 'How can you do that to mommy?' She pretends to bawl, but the baby laughs and gurgles like a psycho, and pulls even harder. I'm witnessing a fresh knife being laid into a brand-new soul. A training dagger. A maternity blade. Here's his mom quietly opening up the control incision, completely innocent in her dumbness to the world. 'Oh no, you've killed Mommy, Mommy's gone!' She plays dead. The little guy giggles for a minute, but only that long. Then he senses something's wrong. She ain't waking up. He killed her, she abandoned him, just like that, over a pull of hair. He pokes her with his finger, he gets ready to bawl. And there you have it: he takes the handle into his own tiny hands and pulls in his first blade, right up to the hilt. Just to bring her back. And sure enough, with the splash of his first tear, she wakes right up. 'Ha, ha, I'm still here! Ha, ha it's Mommy!' Ha, ha, that's the Scheme of Things.

A loud clang of what sounded like a tray hitting the marble kitchen floor made Bree jump and Gianni go wide eyed with apparent terror. He covered his ears and shook his head. “Bang! Bang! Bang!” He fell over and covered his head. Bree rushed over to him as he began shrieking fearfully. “Maaammaaaaaa!” “Is okay, Gianni. Just a ting falled down,” Will said patting Gianni’s back but Bree noticed her little boy’s hand was shaking. “It’s okay, sweetie. Mommy’s here. That’s okay,” she crouched down and gathered Gianni into her arms. “Bang! Mama. It bang!” he wailed into her shoulder, trembling in her arms. “It was just a loud noise. Cook just dropped something, probably a whole big plate of yucky beets. Isn’t that funny?” she said, forcing a laugh. Jesus Christ, how much more violence would her children be forced to endure? Again, Bree felt selfish for bringing her innocent babies into the Dardano world. Gianni looked up at her, picking up on her tone he gave a small watery smile. “Ucky ee “Yucky yucky beets,” Bree repeated bouncing him lightly as her heart returned to its normal rhythm in her chest. Gianni giggled and shuddered against her as the last remnants of his fear dissipated. Bree looked over at Will. “You okay, sweetie?” Will blinked and looked over at her, wide eyed and his lower lip quivered, but he set his chin like she knew he’d watched Alessandro do and nodded. “I bwave. I nod scared.” Bree smiled at him and kissed his cheek as she ran her fingers through his hair. “Wow. That is pretty brave. I know I was scared when I first heard the noise.” “Really?” Will asked hesitantly. “Definitely,” Bree nodded. Gianni echoed the gesture. “Well, dat’s diffen. You’s a girl.” “Oh, is that so?” Bree asked setting Gianni on the blanket next to her. “So you think ’cause mommy’s a girl she’s a fraidy cat. Huh? Huh?” she asked poking him. Will curled in on himself and giggled as he tried to avoid her fingers.

In terms of cathartic affect, memoir is like therapy, the difference being that in therapy, you pay them. The therapist is the mommy, and you’re the baby. In memoir, you’re the mommy, and the reader’s the baby. And—hopefully—they pay you. (“No man but a blockhead ever wrote for any cause but money,” Samuel Johnson said.)

Sometimes, Sam would say, "I love you, Daddy," and hold her breath for as long as she could so she wouldn't miss it if he's finally whispered, "I love you, too." Mommy said Daddy loved Sam but that men just don't say that kind of thing out loud. Sam knew that wasn't true because Mary McCallister's daddy always said, "I love you, baby girl!" for no reason at all.

Shannon narrowed her eyes. “You horned in on my baby-sitting territory. My sister and I used to be the only sitters around here.” She opened the box and began to ease a gooey slice away from the rest of the pie. “How’d you like pizza in your face?” “No! Don’t throw it!” shrieked Amanda. “Mommy and Daddy just had the hall painted. And the fish fountain cost two thousand dollars!” Shannon hesitated long enough for me to say, “You throw that at me and I’ll throw it back at Astrid. You’ll have a pepperoni mountain dog.” Shannon dropped the slice back into the box. She pressed her lips together. Was she crying? No, a giggle escaped. Then Tiffany stifled a laugh. Then Amanda and Max and I let out giggles of relief. “A pepperoni mountain dog!” exclaimed Shannon. We all laughed more loudly.

You should write about all of this,' he told me. 'All of what?' 'Becoming a mother.' 'No!' This suggestion made me furious, it seemed to me that every college-educated woman with a laptop, a baby, and a sketchy grasp of grammar had reinvented herself as a 'mommy blogger.' Not that, no way—not for me. I had fought too hard and too long to go down like that.

When I was young, just a baby, really, my mother used to sing to me every night. I’d always request the song, the one that goes: My mommy comes back, she always comes back, she always comes back to get me. My mommy comes back, she always comes back, she never will forget me.

I think I missed the fact that maybe my longing for a third baby was also impacted, at least a little bit, by momfluencers like Taza who made pregnancy and motherhood look good. I forgot to credit them for being one of the many fucked-up reasons I craved another baby.

Take care of this idiot, okay? He's your responsibility now, like a baby bird with acid reflux and mommy issues. And don't let him drink Fireball, he'll puke all over your sofa.

Nikki started screaming for her mother, and suddenly—as in that very instant—Shelly appeared. “What is it?” she asked. “Baby, what’s wrong?” Nikki, crying, said someone had put a pillow over her face. “It was a bad dream,” Shelly said. Even then, Nikki knew better. “It wasn’t a dream, Mommy.

Oh no.” Julie clicked her tongue. “Did the mean human girl pick on you? Does the little bouda boy want his mommy?” “Untie me!” “Awww, the little baby is crying. Boohoo. Does the baby need his bottle and his teddy?

INTRODUCTION 0 to 3 MONTHS 1. Make the most of your hospital stay 2. Take care of your postpartum body 3. Take baby to the pediatrician . . . several times 4. Take newborn photos 5. Figure out breastfeeding 6. Get some sleep! 7. Manage Mom and Dad 8. Celebrate baby’s first milestones 9. Survive baby witching hour 10. Watch out for the blues 11. Get back in the sack 12. Get out of the house 13. Think about babywearing 3 to 6 MONTHS 14. Find your village 15. Prepare to go back to work, or not 16. Start some routines 17. Tame teething 18. Think about sleep training, or not 19. Teach baby sign language 20. Create a photo book 21. Reconnect with your partner 22. Don’t obsess over percentiles 23. Survive baby’s first illness 24. Make “me time” a priority 25. Interview sitters 26. Ready, Set, Eat: Start solid foods 6 to 9 MONTHS 27. Time to babyproof 28. Deal with separation anxiety 29. Work on those motor skills 30. Get back to your workouts 31. Plan a getaway 32. Start brushing teeth 33. Make mom friends 34. Start traditions 9 to 12 MONTHS 35. Get an adjustment 36. Ask for help 37. Think about discipline 38. Think about weaning, or not 39. Sign up for a mommy-and-me (or daddy-and-me) class 40. Take care of your diet 41. Capture your memories 42. Reignite your style 43. Embrace your new body 44. Trust your instincts 45. Book a couple’s getaway 46. Get your affairs in order 47. Do a cake smash photo shoot 48. Find a hobby 49. Learn to save money 50. Celebrate baby’s first birthday

BABY FASHION TRENDS 2021 AND BEYOND Fashion for babies is fun - dressing up the babies in the tiniest adorable attires. Relished with excitement, all mommies want to keep their little ones on top of the fashion trends. Even before they're born, their wardrobe is well stocked, with piles of new onesies, dungarees, dresses for little girls, and a range of shorts for boys. Well, before you know, these adorable munchkins grow up within a blink of an eye, as you're stunned how quickly they grew out of their wardrobe. Whether you're soon to become a new mommy or already have your little one playing around, you've come to the right place to find all sorts of options to endearingly dress up the tiny souls. With the fascinating boom in baby apparel in the last few decades, new and adorable trends are revealed each year. Passionate as ever, you would want to try out the styles on your baby. Though your little one might not know what they're wearing, but just a few years - actually months – later, the way you dress them will reflect in the fashion sense and personality they develop! While you would want the trendiest closet for your newborn and toddlers, keep in mind that children feel the most comfortable when their clothes do not pose an obstacle in their flexibility and freedom. Dressed up in stylish yet practical clothes would give your little one freedom of self-expression as they indulge in their innocence. Therefore, when dressing up your kids, keeping a tonal mixture of style and comfort is vital. At Motheringo, we understand your mommy concerns to buy chic yet affordable clothing for your little ones. Stocked with a range of collections offering greater value of money, our clothes are aligned with your budget while ensuring we provide premium quality outfits made with the finest fabrics for your young fashionista.

Let’s sing a song,” Leo said, taking a step back. “Come on, baby, open up your vajayjay,” he sang, clicking his fingers. “Your mommy wants to meet you, but before she gets to greet you, you need to go down her vagina…” Leo paused, trying to work out what rhymes with vagina. “Something, something behind her…

Thank you for allowing me to be part of your special day. Wishing you many years of happiness with your new bundle of joy. Your beautiful little girl is the luckiest baby in the world because she has the two of you to call Mommy and Daddy. Cherish one another.

All these young mothers chauffeuring their volcanic three-year-olds through the grocery store. The child’s name always sounds vaguely presidential, and he or she tends to act accordingly. “Mommy hears what you’re saying about treats,” the woman will say, “but right now she needs you to let go of her hair and put the chocolate-covered Life Savers back where they came from.” “No!” screams McKinley or Madison, Kennedy or Lincoln or beet-faced baby Reagan. Looking on, I always want to intervene. “Listen,” I’d like to say, “I’m not a parent myself, but I think the best solution at this point is to slap that child across the face. It won’t stop its crying, but at least now it’ll be doing it for a good reason.

He couldn’t sit with me in the bathroom and watch the little pink line show up on the stick or put his hand to my belly and feel his baby kicking. He wouldn’t be able to come with me to ultrasounds or hold my hand while I push. This is a man who wants to be a daddy, Sloan. And I’m never going to be a mommy. It just is what it is.

Yes, there is a baby gang bang, all day errrrrrday, you heard! Grandma said I'm baby gang bang for life, she said I can start my own crew and not to let slow people, like mommy in it,

In the last year, he’d gone from Mommy to Mom, a crossing from baby into boyhood that rendered a tiny rip in Lulu’s heart.

up. You about to scare all this Christmas pussy away! Do you see how much pussy walking around in here for the fuckin’ holidays? If I play my cards right, I could have pussy all the way through to New Year’s Day. Keep that shit up and I swear I’m telling mommy yo’ evil scrooge lookin’ ass is out here blocking my pussy blessings. You know how she feels about us giving her some grandkids, and I think I found me some baby mama material right there. My New Year’s resolution is gonna be to get me a new brother that don’t scare these damn bitches off! The fuck! I’m sure when God made one scrooge, he made a bunch of you crazy ass niggas! So, it won’t be hard for you to find some friends,” Damion said to me with his face frowned up. “You

You know what I mean,” I said. “You want to be the mother who all the other mothers gossip about? Like about how bad your parenting skills are?” Erica placed her hand on her hip. “Yeah, I do. Fuck ‘em. Fuck all those mothers. Fuck their playdates and mommy groups and fucking Melissa and Doug puzzles. Fuck their running strollers and baby couture and breastfeeding advice. Fuck their—

Melissa finally clears her throat and lifts up the item from the box.  My mouth drops as I see what she is holding up.  It is a cute little pink baby outfit with the words “Mommy’s Favorite Girl” written in the front.  Oh My God!

Reluctantly Alexander knocked on the door. After coming in, he sat by a quiet Anthony on the bed, and taking a deep breath asked, “Bud, is there anything you want to talk to me about?” “NO!” Anthony said. “Hmm. You sure?” He patted his leg, prodded him. Anthony didn’t say anything. Alexander talked to him anyway. He explained that adults every once in a while wanted to have a baby. The men had this, and the women had that, and to make a baby there needed to be some conjoining, much like a tight connection of mortise and tenon between two pieces of wood. For the conjoining to be effective, there needed to be movement (which is where the mortise and tenon analogy broke down but Anthony thankfully didn’t question it), which is probably the thing that frightened Anthony, but really it was nothing to be afraid of, it was just the essence of the grand design. To reward Alexander’s valiant efforts, Anthony stared at his father as if he had just been told his parents drank the cold blood of vampires every night before bed. “You were doing what?” And then he said, after a considerable pause, “You and Mom were trying to have a—baby?” “Um—yes.” “Did you have to do that once before—to make me?” “Um—yes.” “This is what all adults have to do to make a baby?” “Yes.” “So, Sergio’s mom has three children. Does that mean his parents had to do that... three times?” Alexander bit his lip. “Yes,” he said. “Dad,” said Anthony, “I don’t think Mom wants to have any more children. Didn’t you hear her?” “Son...” “Didn’t you hear her? Please, Dad.” Alexander stood up. “All righty then. Well, I’m glad we had this talk.” “Not me.” When he came outside, Tatiana was waiting at the table. “How did it go?” “Pretty much,” said Alexander, “like my father’s conversation went with me.” Tatiana laughed. “You better hope it went better than that. Your father wasn’t very effective.” “Your son is reading Wonder Woman comics, Tatia,” said Alexander. “I don’t know how effective anything I say is going to be very shortly.” “Wonder Woman?” “Have you seen Wonder Woman?” Alexander shook his head and went to get his cigarettes. “Never mind. Soon it’ll all become clear. So yes for building the house, or no?” “No, Shura. Just lock the door next time.” So the house went unbuilt. Wonder Woman got read, Anthony’s voice changed, he started barricading his bedroom door at night, while across the mobile home, across the kitchen and the living room, behind a locked door, “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” played on and on and on.

Ericka had thought of them as her glory days when she had wanted to march on every capitol; kick down the doors of the most powerfully entrenched; when she had wanted to right every wrong, and stomp out villainy everywhere. Gene had called her the “Rebel with too many causes”. But that had been different. It was as if all that had just been a training period, mere preparation for the way she felt now. That had been student idealism. This was the pain of a grieving mom who couldn’t watch anyone else’s kid suffer. In her short time on the planet, their sweet daughter Madie, their little Bitsie, had taught them so much. About priorities. About courage. About how they could truly love and treasure another single human life, not just hold some general, pro-active fondness for all of humanity everywhere. In loving that tiny child; knowing all the while that they were losing her, Ericka and Gene had suffered immensely. But they had also grown. In tending to their frail, courageous little girl, Ericka had once again unleashed her inner need to help others; an essential part of her being, but now with renewed, and focused passion. Once, when Ericka had broken down and wept as she’d had to hand her baby off for more tests, it had been little Madie who had comforted Mommy. She’d told Ericka she was glad she could do this so they could find out what was wrong with her, and then maybe other little kids wouldn’t have to hurt this way ever again. One way or another, her mommy now would make that little life count for something. Ericka wanted to; she needed to cram all her pain into something she could change. Someone somewhere she could actually help, but not lose in the end. She had to find causes she could pour her almost fierce, hard-charging nature into, and actually save somebody this time. It didn’t have to be one particular disease; it could be hunger; it could be anything, but she had to get out there and do something. Before she had fought for causes. But now those causes would have little faces. - A taste of my new book, "The Soul Hides in Shadows

He’s not coming, baby,” the nurse said. “Do you have someone else to call?” Nadia glanced up, startled by the nurse’s confidence that Luke would not show, but even more jolted by her use of the word baby. A cotton-soft baby that seemed to surprise the nurse herself, like it had tripped off her tongue. Just like how after the surgery, in her delirium, Nadia had looked into the nurse’s blurred face and said “Mommy?” with such sweetness, the nurse had almost answered yes.

Yummy mommies with Pilate's-honed bodies bouncing designer-clad babies on tanned knees. 

P.J. had worked himself into a full-on rage that immediately subsided when she guided him to her breast. “Mommy has magic boobies, buddy. I’ve been telling her that for years now.” Janey laughed, which dislodged the baby from her nipple. “Don’t make me laugh. It makes him mad.

Mommy!” “Hey, baby, I’m so sorry I’m late,” I said, crouching and wrapping my arms around him so I could inhale the scent of his jasmine baby wash. I thought about my meeting with Rowan and the way Sam was insisting I tell him everything. Without so much as a hint of warning, emotion surged inside me, and I started to weep against him. He was my baby, my everything. He’d been with me when I was pregnant and scared and when I didn’t know what the hell I was doing once he was born. I’d woken up every hour, on the hour, to feed him. I was the one who had lain awake with him on my chest when he got his first fever. Sure, I had help from my sister and grandmother, but he was my son. What was I supposed to do when Rowan demanded weekends with him? Just let him go?

Daddy? Daddy, I know the baby is in the mommy’s tummy and the baby comes out of the mommy’s tummy, but, Daddy? How do that baby get in the mommy’s tummy?” He stopped dead in his tracks in the parking lot, his daughter in the rider seat of the shopping cart, his bagged groceries in the cart, and stared at her dumbly. Time stopped. He tried to channel Franci, who seemed to do all this parent stuff with such ease, but nothing came. “Daddy?” she asked. He smiled with what he hoped was confidence, pinched her little chin and said, “After you have Stroganoff and peas tonight, would you like chocolate or vanilla ice cream?” “Chocolate!” she yelled. “Whipped cream and a cherry?” “Whip cream and a cherry!” she yelled. “That’s what I thought. No chicken and broccoli for you tonight. No, sir. You’re having fun food! Daddy’s Stroganoff and ice cream!” “Yay!” she yelled. Later

If we all changed our mindset about how we should look as young girls, young women and then new mothers, older mothers and finally the grandest achievement of all-GRANDmothers, we would see that each stage of our lives is to be experienced in the present and to accept the body changes that come with it. So often I hear people trying to “get back into shape” after their babies. What shape would that be? You now have a body that has just done something amazing! Treat it with the respect and love it deserves and understand that recovering the body after birth is about restoring, strengthening and nurturing.

Yes, your children are constantly observing you. They are profoundly influenced by what they record. And that can quickly turn from funny to serious, especially when mommy and daddy start fighting.

At almost three, I was the baby girl, a waif, blond sprouting in competing directions from my scalp. My nose was wider at the bridge than both my sisters’, a source of embarrassment for my father, who, I would later find out, favored the Nordic look in the women he loved. My nose wasn’t the only way I disappointed him. After two daughters, he’d been counting on a son, a male successor to be named Carl. When I was born, he and Mommy simply added a y to the word, like an accusing chromosome: Carly. My

Ruby froze as she looked into the friendly green eyes of Baby Face Marshall. And the words of Agent Blacker came shooting back to her. If you see Baby Face, don’t bother calling for Mommy, run!

just one generation ago, kids were potty trained at seventeen to twenty-two months. I truly believe it’s because our moms, for the most part, were stay-at-home moms. I mean stay at home. They didn’t work at home, they had no computer for email and Facebook, no cell phones, no identities to preserve, no mommy groups, no playdates, no baby gymnastics, no music classes, and no swimming lessons. Now, I’m forty-three, so maybe I’m talking to a younger audience here, and I’m certainly not saying our moms exhibited the best parenting. But I do believe it was that stay-at-home factor that made potty training so easy.

Chromosomes. Sex. Grasshoppers. "Pick me up, Mommy." This is an odd list, except in the eye of evolution. For in the major developments in the history of life, the ability to say, "Pick me up, Mommy" features prominently along with the emergence of genes, sexual reproduction, and multicellular organisms. On a smaller but no less wondrous scale, the ability to speak opens one mind to another. Babies announce their arrival with a loud cry, but it is their first words that launch the journey of a lifetime.

We do science because we want to understand the truth. It is a constant, ongoing pursuit to understand our own biology so that we can make smart choices at an individual and policy level. If the science of breastfeeding is used first and foremost as a tool for breastfeeding promotion, we compromise public trust in science. Biased information about breastfeeding also sets up infant feeding as a debate, which sometimes escalates to mommy war status, and it doesn't need to be either of these.

A father stork and baby stork are sitting in their nest. The baby stork is crying and crying and father stork is trying to calm him. “Don’t worry, son. Your mother will come back. She’s just out bringing people babies and making them happy.” The next night, it’s the father’s turn to do the job. Mother and child are sitting in the nest and the baby stork is crying and crying. The mother stork says, “Son, don’t cry. Your father will be back soon. He’s just out bringing joy to new mommies and daddies.” A few days later, the stork parents are desperate: their son is absent from the nest all night! Shortly before dawn, the little chick returns and the parents ask him where he’s been all night. “Nowhere,” says the storklet. “Just out scaring the shit out of college students!

The baby is a bit of an asshole, but he’ll grow out of it. We’ll survive.

Do we need a man to get a tree, Mommy?” Holly whispered, looking up at Regan as if her answer could forever change the course of her little five-year-old life. “Are you kidding? Just look at these guns.” She flexed her arms. When Holly didn’t look so confident, Regan dropped to her knees and cupped her daughter’s face with both hands. “No, baby. We just need each other.

Oops. Forgot those, huh?” Ryker stroked Marie’s hair and said down to her, “Mommy is going to beg Daddy to give you a baby brother or sister. What do you think about that?” “Don’t

My seven-year-old daughter, Emma, is standing at the doorway to our bedroom, watching me contemplate what to do with her father’s favorite T-shirt. Even though we’ve already had breakfast, she’s still wearing her Frozen pajamas, which are royal blue with little snowflakes all over them. I guiltily shove the T-shirt back into the drawer and turn to smile at Emma. She doesn’t smile back. While her big brother is excited about the idea of staying with Aunt Penny for a week, Emma is decidedly freaked out. For the last week, Emma has crawled into our queen-sized bed every single night to sleep. Fortunately, Noah and I sleep with a gap the size of the Atlantic Ocean between us. “What’s wrong, honey?” I ask. Emma’s lower lip trembles. She runs over to me and wraps her skinny arms around my hips. “Don’t go, Mommy. Please.” “Emma…” I attempt to pry her off me, but she’s stuck like glue. It’s sweet. As much as I dislike my husband, I love my children. I’ve always loved children. It’s part of the reason I became a teacher. Nothing makes me happier than seeing the smiles light up those little faces. I reach down and wipe Emma’s damp light brown curls from her face. Her hair looks like mine, but it’s still baby soft. I lean in and bury my face in it—it smells like her watermelon shampoo. “It’s just a week, sweetheart,” I say. She looks up at me with her little tear-streaked cheeks. “But what if something happens to you?” I don’t know how my seven-year-old daughter got so neurotic. She worries about everything, including things no child has any business worrying about. Like when there was talk of a teacher strike last year, she was worried I wouldn’t have a job and we wouldn’t be able to afford food. What seven-year-old worries about that? “Why are you so worried, Emma?” She chews on her little pink lip. “Well, you’re going to be in the woods.” I don’t blame her for worrying if that’s what she thinks. Neither of her parents is what you would call “the outdoorsy type” by any stretch of the imagination. “Don’t worry,” I say. “We’re staying in a nice hotel. It will be really safe.

more difficult. “Go now?” Hadley turned serious blue eyes to Daphne. “See my baby?” Rick and his wife, Desiree, had recently had a baby boy, Aaron, and Hadley was madly in love with him. “Not yet, chickadee. Mommy

She didn’t like to be corrected. But she always enjoyed seeing Mommy like this, in her natural state of hating and giving up. If only Daddy could see it, then he’d understand that Mommy was phony.

She’s pretty like us, Mommy,” the little girl declares.

Saying I was lonely or alone in my aches would be understating the gravity of what I felt. My world reminded me constantly of my lack of club membership. For many years I was inevitably hurt by and excluded from mommy gatherings, baby showers, church moms' groups and friends' playdates. If I was invited, my exclusion quickly followed in the form of disconnection. I had nothing to offer the conversations regarding mom advice, funny kid stories, or parenting hacks. The circles I should belong to, I no longer fit into. I felt the pull of our distancing life stages. No matter how hard I tried, the club was out of reach.

Michelle, I want you to go with Rex and Peter. You be a good little girl, and I will see you later. Janie is gonna take good care of you.” “Mommy, I’m scared.” “Baby, Daddy is not gonna hurt you ever again.” “I’m not scared for me, I’m scared that something bad is going to happen to you.” “No, baby. Mommy doesn’t have to ever go near Daddy again. Trust me. I love you and I’ll see you later. Now give me a big kiss.” “She’ll be alright, Sara,” Rex said. “You take care. See you later.” As they drove off down the street, I strapped Michael Jr. into his car seat and we headed toward Edna’s house. I couldn’t believe all of this was happening. I thought about leaving a note for Mike. Regardless of everything, I still somehow had feelings for this man. But I had to let it go in order to set some kind of example for my children. It would break my heart to know that Michelle was in a relationship where domestic violence was taking place.

It didn't matter that they I didn’t know who was doing this to me, it didn't matter that my hands were tied and I had a bag over my head, I was going to cum for them.