Mother Abbreviation Quotes

And not trusting one’s mother is, on a cellular level, unjust.

My parents died years ago. I was very close to them. I still miss them terribly. I know I always will. I long to believe that their essence, their personalities, what I loved so much about them, are - really and truly - still in existence somewhere. I wouldn't ask very much, just five or ten minutes a year, say, to tell them about their grandchildren, to catch them up on the latest news, to remind them that I love them. There's a part of me - no matter how childish it sounds - that wonders how they are. "Is everything all right?" I want to ask. The last words I found myself saying to my father, at the moment of his death, were "Take care." Sometimes I dream that I'm talking to my parents, and suddenly - still immersed in the dreamwork - I'm seized by the overpowering realization that they didn't really die, that it's all been some kind of horrible mistake. Why, here they are, alive and well, my father making wry jokes, my mother earnestly advising me to wear a muffler because the weather is chilly. When I wake up I go through an abbreviated process of mourning all over again. Plainly, there's something within me that's ready to believe in life after death. And it's not the least bit interested in whether there's any sober evidence for it. So I don't guffaw at the woman who visits her husband's grave and chats him up every now and then, maybe on the anniversary of his death. It's not hard to understand. And if I have difficulties with the ontological status of who she's talking to, that's all right. That's not what this is about. This is about humans being human.

1. a.Never throw shit at an armed man. b.Never stand next to someone who is throwing shit at an armed man. 2.Never fire a laser at a mirror. 3.Mother Nature doesn't care if you're having fun. 4.F × S = k. The product of Freedom and Security is a constant. To gain more freedom of thought and/or action, you must give up some security, and vice versa. 5.Psi and/or magical powers, if real, are nearly useless. 6.It is easier to destroy than create. 7.Any damn fool can predict the past. 8.History never repeats itself. 9.Ethics change with technology. 10.There Ain't No Justice. (often abbreviated to TANJ) 11.Anarchy is the least stable of social structures. It falls apart at a touch. 12.There is a time and place for tact. And there are times when tact is entirely misplaced. 13.The ways of being human are bounded but infinite. 14.The world's dullest subjects, in order: a.Somebody else's diet. b.How to make money for a worthy cause. c.The Kardashians. 15.The only universal message in science fiction: There exist minds that think as well as you do, but differently. Niven's corollary: The gene-tampered turkey you're talking to isn't necessarily one of them. 16.Fuzzy Pink Niven's Law: Never waste calories. 17.There is no cause so right that one cannot find a fool following it. in variant form in Fallen Angels as "Niven's Law: No cause is so noble that it won't attract fuggheads." 18.No technique works if it isn't used. 19.Not responsible for advice not taken. 20.Old age is not for sissies.

MY MOTHER MADE me doubt and question my perceptions. The loving and warm persona that followed the tirades confused and destabilized me. I wanted a witness. An ally. To verify. To have proof. Someone I could turn to and say, “This happened, didn’t it?” Someone who could see the transformation I saw. “I have a right to be angry, don’t I? I don’t trust her,” I say. Only I didn’t say this. Because I was seven years old and I didn’t know yet that’s how I felt. And not trusting one’s mother is, on a cellular level, unjust. I needed to be heard and kept hoping she would hear me. As a child, it was too overwhelming to believe that she couldn’t recognize reality. My craving for her to be different was powerful. It inoculated me against the tumult. I descended deep within myself, far away to a place in the future. Where things would make sense and right was right and wrong was wrong. I was able to crawl away from my rage. But I never crawled away far enough.

It is now time to face the fact that English is a crazy language — the most loopy and wiggy of all tongues. In what other language do people drive in a parkway and park in a driveway? In what other language do people play at a recital and recite at a play? Why does night fall but never break and day break but never fall? Why is it that when we transport something by car, it’s called a shipment, but when we transport something by ship, it’s called cargo? Why does a man get a hernia and a woman a hysterectomy? Why do we pack suits in a garment bag and garments in a suitcase? Why do privates eat in the general mess and generals eat in the private mess? Why do we call it newsprint when it contains no printing but when we put print on it, we call it a newspaper? Why are people who ride motorcycles called bikers and people who ride bikes called cyclists? Why — in our crazy language — can your nose run and your feet smell?Language is like the air we breathe. It’s invisible, inescapable, indispensable, and we take it for granted. But, when we take the time to step back and listen to the sounds that escape from the holes in people’s faces and to explore the paradoxes and vagaries of English, we find that hot dogs can be cold, darkrooms can be lit, homework can be done in school, nightmares can take place in broad daylight while morning sickness and daydreaming can take place at night, tomboys are girls and midwives can be men, hours — especially happy hours and rush hours — often last longer than sixty minutes, quicksand works very slowly, boxing rings are square, silverware and glasses can be made of plastic and tablecloths of paper, most telephones are dialed by being punched (or pushed?), and most bathrooms don’t have any baths in them. In fact, a dog can go to the bathroom under a tree —no bath, no room; it’s still going to the bathroom. And doesn’t it seem a little bizarre that we go to the bathroom in order to go to the bathroom? Why is it that a woman can man a station but a man can’t woman one, that a man can father a movement but a woman can’t mother one, and that a king rules a kingdom but a queen doesn’t rule a queendom? How did all those Renaissance men reproduce when there don’t seem to have been any Renaissance women? Sometimes you have to believe that all English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane: In what other language do they call the third hand on the clock the second hand? Why do they call them apartments when they’re all together? Why do we call them buildings, when they’re already built? Why it is called a TV set when you get only one? Why is phonetic not spelled phonetically? Why is it so hard to remember how to spell mnemonic? Why doesn’t onomatopoeia sound like what it is? Why is the word abbreviation so long? Why is diminutive so undiminutive? Why does the word monosyllabic consist of five syllables? Why is there no synonym for synonym or thesaurus? And why, pray tell, does lisp have an s in it? If adults commit adultery, do infants commit infantry? If olive oil is made from olives, what do they make baby oil from? If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian consume? If pro and con are opposites, is congress the opposite of progress? ...

In Fleury’s day, however, the grass was cut and the graves well cared for. Besides, as you might expect, he was fond of graveyards; he enjoyed brooding in them and letting his heart respond to the abbreviated biographies he found engraved in their stones . . . so eloquent, so succinct! All the same, once he had spent an hour or two pondering by his mother’s grave he decided to call it a day because, after all, one does not want to overdo the lurking in graveyards. This decision was not a very sudden one. From the age of sixteen when he had first become interested in books, much to the distress of his father, he had paid little heed to physical and sporting matters. He had been of a melancholy and listless cast of mind, the victim of the beauty and sadness of the universe. In the course of the last two or three years, however, he had noticed that his sombre and tubercular manner was no longer having quite the effect it had once had, particularly on young ladies. They no longer found his pallor so interesting, they tended to become impatient with his melancholy. The effect, or lack of it, that you have on the opposite sex is important because it tells you whether or not you are in touch with the spirit of the times, of which the opposite sex is invariably the custodian. The truth was that the tide of sensitivity to beauty, of gentleness and melancholy, had gradually ebbed leaving Fleury floundering on a sandbank. Young ladies these days were more interested in the qualities of Tennyson’s “great, broad-shouldered, genial Englishman” than they were in pallid poets, as Fleury was dimly beginning to perceive. Louise Dunstaple’s preference for romping with jolly officers which had dismayed him on the day of the picnic had by no means been the first rebuff of this kind. Even Miriam sometimes asked him aloud why he was looking “hangdog” when once she would have remained silent, thinking “soulful”. All

I had experienced a TIA, which of course further infuriated your mother (she has always been hostile to abbreviation).

In Atlantia, it is tradition to be given a second name, a middle one, so to speak. It's given in honor of a cherished family member or friend, usually picked by the mother, and it is a well-guarded secret only shared outside of the family with the closest of friends and with those who hold a special place in one’s life. My mother chose my middle name in honor of her brother. His name was Hawkethrone. My full name is Casteel Hawkethrone Da’Neer. When I was a small child, my mother took to calling me an abbreviated form of that name. And so did my brother. They, and only they had ever known me as Hawke,” he said. “Until you.

My mother desperately wanted to have a child. She wanted someone to cleave to her. Having a child was insurance. A lifetime of companionship.

WHAT I SAW was a diplomat. At seven years old I was strategizing. Understanding that asserting myself was not just useless but harmful. It didn’t matter if I was right or wrong, what mattered is that I didn’t make it worse. What mattered was making sure my mother was taken care of.

My mother imparted her devotion through words. But words were also weapons. They could embolden and they could destroy. They provided security and ripped it away. She was sensitive to words and she passed that on to me. I inherited the belief that what was spoken could always fix what was broken.

A Day 15 Months In The Making from “The Light Brigade”477 Home Psychotic Home Epilogue APPENDIX Glossary: Acronym, Abbreviation & Jargon Decoder Bibliography We, the unwilling, led by the unknowing, are doing the impossible for the ungrateful. We have done so much, for so long, with so little, we are now qualified to do anything with nothing. ---Mother Teresa

Consider Johnson & Johnson. It has the corporate world’s single most eloquent statement of purpose—its “credo,” which hasn’t changed since J&J’s legendary chair Robert Wood Johnson created it in 1943. Here it is, in abbreviated form: We believe our first responsibility is to the doctors, nurses, and patients, to mothers and fathers and all others who use our products and services.… We are responsible to our employees, the men and women who work with us throughout the world.… We are responsible to the communities in which we live and work and to the world community as well.… Our final responsibility is to our stockholders.… When we operate according to these principles, the stockholders should realize a fair return. The credo bluntly spells out the pecking order: customers come first, and shareholders last. However, J&J has confidence that when customer satisfaction is at the top of the list, shareholders will do just fine.

I’ll take care of it.” I snatched the offending bottle from the counter. “Are her sister and mother with her?” “Frankie, yeah. Natasha went to sleep in a guest room. Guess she felt like she could take a break because Dal’s feeling better.” I took the stairs two at a time. With each step I climbed, my spirits lifted. The lilt of Shortbread’s sweet, bell-like voice filled the corridor. Quiet, but unmistakably her. Why did it take me until today to realize I enjoyed her voice? Her sound? Her general existence? Maybe because it marked the one thing that wasn’t complete silence that my ears cherished. When I reached her door, I raised my fist, intending to knock. I couldn’t wait to show her the book. Childish pride filled me. I supposed this was what kids felt when they did something they knew would grant them their parents’ approval. I wouldn’t know. My parents rarely paid attention to my existence. “…can’t believe you didn’t tell me you two were having S-E-X.” Franklin abbreviated the last word, whisper-shouting in excitement. A chuckle lodged in my throat. I wasn’t one to eavesdrop, but staying back for a few moments to hear Dallas’s response wouldn’t enter the list of top ten-thousand worst things I’d done in my life. “How’s the sex?” Franklin demanded. “It’s okay, I guess.” Dallas coughed, still weak. “I’m not suffering.” Understatement of the generation, sweetheart. “Does that mean that you like him?” Frankie gasped, holding her breath. For an odd reason, I did the same. There was no pause, no hesitation, in Dallas’s response. (chapter 58)

He lowered his hand. “In Atlantia, it is tradition to be given a second name, a middle one, so to speak. It's given in honor of a cherished family member or friend, usually picked by the mother, and it is a well-guarded secret only shared outside of the family with the closest of friends and with those who hold a special place in one’s life. My mother chose my middle name in honor of her brother. His name was Hawkethrone. My full name is Casteel Hawkethrone Da’Neer. When I was a small child, my mother took to calling me an abbreviated form of that name. And so did my brother. They, and only they had ever known me as Hawke,” he said. “Until you.

I DID NOT hate my mother. I feared her. I feared her destroying my life. I feared her lies would turn others against me. I feared the incessant and unending conflict I would be forced to engage in with someone who couldn’t see past her own reality. To put myself first caused her to suffer. I feared the pain I would cause. I feared that pain would metastasize into vengeance. I feared her in the way I did as a child because I was powerless then to protect myself. There are days I am still that child.

THE TWO EXTREMES. My mother, who feels entitled to sympathy and has no recognition of being a burden. My father—who doesn’t want to impose, doesn’t want to encumber me with his problems—has become my biggest worry.

My mother was too powerful. He had to retreat. There was no alternative; he had to disengage. There is no one who identifies with this better than I do. I compensated for the absence of his presence with understanding. He was protecting himself. He had no choice but to leave and I had no choice but to assimilate. I never felt abandoned.

MY EQUILIBRIUM IS interior. A refusal to succumb to inherited feelings of helplessness. Equilibrium, for me, was balancing internal conflict. It wasn’t possible for my mother to have a feeling and not discharge it immediately. It was up to me to not lose my balance and adjust.

I IMAGINE THAT if someone were to see this, they would think what a horrible daughter I must be. Heartless, as my mother says. Indecent. But disconnecting is something that is necessary or I will be devoured. It is her or me—and I choose me. There is no middle ground.

I did not hate my mother. I feared her...I feared her in the way I did as a child because I was powerless then to protect myself. There are days I am still that child. She frightens me. And her power is undiminished by the passage of time.

He had to be true to himself so that he could be available to me. There are people who cannot withstand conflict and trauma or manage strife. He didn’t know what he was getting into. My mother was too powerful. He had to retreat. There was no alternative; he had to disengage.

I was at a party at your house and had a bug in my glass of water and I said, ‘There’s a bug in my drink,’ and your mother immediately shot back, ‘Don’t worry, it won’t drink much.

But my mother reminded me it wasn’t permanent. “What kind of father leaves his child to move to the other side of the world? If he loved you, he’d live in New York.

Rita writing to my father, my father writing to me, my mother writing poetry. Everyone was writing their way out of the helplessness.

I SHARE WITH you, you share with me. That’s what mothers and daughters do.” It’s a command, not a choice. Withholding is a rejection.

My mother would enter to give an impromptu reading of her poetry. My bedroom was a sanctuary for everyone but me.

I didn’t like him at first. He was another one of my mother’s boyfriends who occupied her attention. I needed her and she needed him.

My mother saw his ingenuity as a talent; he created something from nothing. The way she turned a blank page into a poem, he turned a steak into an empire.

He often spoke about how no one ever gave him anything in life and he tried to rein in my mother’s belief that the world owed her. He was, above all else, tolerant. When it came to her, this was his weakness.

My mother’s friendship with Sylvia seemed built on an intense dislike for each other. They’d been friends a long time. They had too much in common.

A child cannot understand when a mother feels one emotion but expresses another,” he says. It makes sense. I ask, “When the nutrients that are needed to develop trust and security are missing, are they missing for life?” Dr. Teicher closes his eyes and tilts his head back as he thinks. He doesn’t know the answer.

ON MY THIRTIETH birthday my mother hands me a hardcover copy of Humboldt’s Gift by Saul Bellow. The novel is about the life of the poet Delmore Schwartz, whom she knew. She wants me to read Humboldt’s Gift because it’s crucial, and she talks about Saul Bellow. She respects him and holds him in high regard.

He was a single lawyer living abroad in Southeast Asia and knew it would be impossible to gain custody of me through the legal system. There were many reasons an attempt would be futile. My mother had money. She would hire lawyers to crush him.

Did you speak with your father?” my mother often asked. The interrogation was relentless.

For years after it happened, my mother said, “Your father tried to kidnap you and he failed and had a breakdown.” That is the story she told. I ask him to tell me the real story.

And photos of my mother—with Henry Miller; with Gloria Steinem;

Oh, are you her teacher?” she asked. “No, I’m Ariel’s friend, Rita,” she replied, dismayed that my mother didn’t know who my teachers were.