Mum Appreciation Quotes

Well, we find we appreciate you more and more, Mum, now we're washing our own socks

Gratitude,expression of deepest soul.

Then Mum told Elsa to put on her headphones, but Elsa still heard their argument about the difference between “sexual harassment” and “basic appreciation of a perfectly splendid ass.

His mother informed us that she had assumed his wife would be buying his advent calendars for him, now he was married, which came as something of a surprise to me, as I did not remember anything in our wedding vows about ‘To Be Your Bloody Mother From This Day Forth …’ I bought him a calendar the next year as a joke, but he didn’t seem to realise the joke part, going so far as to tell me that for future reference, he actually preferred a Thornton’s calendar to a Dairy Milk one, but he appreciated the thought. And so I continue to buy my forty-year-old husband an advent calendar every year, because apparently I am his mum now, and he is a spoilt child.

Now, in all that he has done, Amos Tutuola is not sui generis. Is he ungrammatical? Yes. But James Joyce is more ungrammatical than Tutuola. Ezekiel Mphahlele has often said and written that African writers are doing violence to English. Violence? Has Joyce not done more violence to the English Language? Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn is written in seven dialects, he tells us. It is acknowledged a classic. We accept it, forget that it has no "grammar", and go ahead to learn his "grammar" and what he has to tell us. Let Tutuola write "no grammar" and the hyenas and jackals whine and growl. Let Gabriel Okara write a "no grammar" Okolo. They are mum. Why? Education drives out of the mind superstition, daydreaming, building of castles in the air, cultivation of yarns, and replaces them with a rational practical mind, almost devoid of imagination. Some of these minds having failed to write imaginative stories, turn to that aristocratic type of criticism which magnifies trivialities beyond their real size. They fail to touch other virtues in a work because they do not have the imagination to perceive these mysteries. Art is arbitrary. Anybody can begin his own style. Having begun it arbitrarily, if he persists to produce in that particular mode, he can enlarge and elevate it to something permanent, to something other artists will come to learn and copy, to something the critics will catch up with and appreciate.

I try to teach this to every young person I meet. Your mother does everything for you. Let her know you appreciate her, let her know that you love her. Why argue with the people you love? Go out on the street, stop a person littering and argue with them. There are a million better people to argue with than your mum!

Granny has had nine different nurses since she was admitted. Seven of these she refused to cooperate with, and two refused to cooperate with her, one of them because Granny said he had a “nice ass.” Granny insists it was a compliment to his ass, not to him, and he shouldn’t make such a fuss about it. Then Mum told Elsa to put on her headphones, but Elsa still heard their argument about the difference between “sexual harassment” and “basic appreciation of a perfectly splendid ass.

It didn't seem like we had to do with less at all. It felt like exactly the opposite. Having this women stay with use made us feel very well off. This is why my mum is a genius. She could've told us a million times that we were lucky to have what we had- three meals a day, clothes to wear, a roof over our heads - and we would never have believed her because we heard these cliches all the time and they didn't make us feel lucky. But allowing someone who had even less than we did to live with us made us feel incredibly fortunate, wealthy even. This woman was so appreciative and grateful, and always made us feel like we were benefactors sent from God to help her through. p130

Your lip looks better, Kate. Um…." He lifted his hands as if to rake them through his hair, stopping just before he ruined a look that must have taken beaucoup product to achieve. "Hiya, Harvey. Sad about the guv, eh? I mean Lord… I mean, him. The fact is, before we begin…." "Are you off your meds? Sit down," Kate barked. "Yes, I appreciate the invitation, it's lovely to be here, but the fact is—" "Deepal!" A woman called from the front parlor. "I won't be hidden out here! It's undignified!" "… I brought my mum," Paul concluded. "When I told her I was popping by the guv's—I mean, Lord—I mean, his place, she wouldn't take no for an answer." "You're sacked," Tony said. "Too late. Mum," Paul said, turning to intercept Sharada in the doorway, "Of course you've met, um, er, Tony, and Kate. This is Mrs. Snell, who used to be his secretary, and that's Harvey, the manservant. Like Alfred to Batman." "Deepal, I write romances. I know what a manservant is." Evading her

I just feel like if there's no work involved he won't appreciate me enough. I see how my dad takes my mum for granted sometimes. You should hear how he speaks about her. I mean he loves her, don't get me wrong, but he's always like, 'She's safe, she's reliable, I can always count on her, she keeps the home running.' As if she's some kind of generator, expending energy to keep everyone else running. But what about her energy? I just feel like if Kofi has to put the work in, he's more likely to, like, cherish me. I want to be cherished.

On train trips, Ernie always wanted the window seat. He knew the names of the trees we passed, and the clouds—nacreous, cumulus, nimbus. He was ever vigilant for animal life and appreciative of the tiny patches of humanity along the tracks that exposed the lives of the rail-side dwellers in such intimate detail. “I love sad houses,” he’d say, pointing to a chorus line of discoloured laundry waving at us, to an upturned self-propelled lawnmower, straggly gardens, leaky drainpipes, a rain-weathered pram that had been turned into a wheelbarrow. “The porch lights are on to keep the rats in their dens,” he’d said. To be a voyeur of decay at such close range was as much of an enthrallment as it was a validation of the scarcities in his own backyard. I knew exactly which days Ernie’s mum had had to choose between heating the house and putting food on the table. My mother had been there too. Before the Zipper had given her a leg up.

and sending them on their way, I’m standing under the hot jets of my shower when Nate knocks on the bathroom door before popping his head around it. “I’m glad to see you’re finally alone, bro. I’m not sure Mum and Dad would appreciate you bringing the Barbie twins to Sunday lunch.” He raises his eyebrows making his forehead

But until then, I’ll remain nostalgic, remembering every single moment spent by your side, every single time you made me smile and I hope you remember those memories in the light they deserve. I’ll remain thankful, to you, to the flaws you showed me of myself, the ways you changed me for the better, the experiences, the lesson I’ve learnt and for your Mum’s amazing Shepherd’s Pie. I hope you look back at the beginning and I hope you look back at the end and allow love to fill the gaps because when I look at you, I look at you with love and appreciation and although for such a long time I believed I had found a soul mate, sometimes the people you love must remain only inside of your heart and not within your life.

This infuriates me. The Windrush scandal shows a callous disregard for Commonwealth immigrants, part of a wider lack of respect and appreciation for good, decent people like Grandad Bertie and my mum, who paid their taxes for years and who in their own way contributed

Mum sighs, “My sweet little prince, you've always had these fanciful ideas of romance, but life isn't a fairytale. You fall in love and if you're lucky, it lasts a lifetime and if it doesn't, you find it in you to fall in love again. And when you do, that doesn’t erase the people you loved before, if anything, it makes you appreciate the new love you have even more.

That’s great. Your mum must be thrilled.’ Florence glows. ‘Naturally.’ I feel a twinge of envy that she grew up with a parent who supported her dreams. Even when those dreams consisted of being a Broadway actress. Susan didn’t push her daughter into teaching or some soulless tech job because it paid well. Florence loves her mother, but I don’t think she can ever truly appreciate how lucky she is to have a parent who encourages her to pick whatever path she wants in life and happily holds her hand as she walks down it, no matter whether it leads to a dead end or a pot of gold.

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