Mummy And Son Quotes

Father has a strengthening character like the sun and mother has a soothing temper like the moon.

Parents expect only two things from their children, obedience in their childhood and respect in their adulthood.

Emerson bent a tender look upon his son and heir. ‘Very well, Ramses; Papa will find you all the dead bodies you want.

I may not have known much about pregnancies but I knew that you couldn’t have a son or a daughter without actually doing it first. The priests at school had once muttered something to the effect that when a mummy and a daddy loved each other very much, they lay close together and the Holy Spirit descended upon them to create the miracle of new life. (Charles, in his one attempt at a man-to-man talk with me, had put it rather differently. ‘Get her kit off,’ he said. ‘Play with her tits a bit, because the ladies love that. Then just stick your cock in her pussy and ram it in and out a bit. Don’t hang around too long in there – it’s not a bloody train station. Just do your business and get on with your day.’ It’s no wonder he managed to secure so many wives, the old romantic.) I

Danny was a matador. Other cast members included a chubby Italian chef, a mime, and, for some reason, a mummy. I found that offensive on behalf of living Egyptian people, but I also knew that Parker McHune’s mother couldn’t sew, so wrapping her son in Ace bandages was the best she could do.

Still, I knew rehab was important. So I listened. I went to every class. I held hands with strangers. With suburban mummies who’d gotten addicted to prescription pills, and a preacher’s son who’d fallen into the arms of heroin, and a Russian oligarch’s daughter who, like me, had snorted pounds and pounds of cocaine to numb the feeling that the world was closing in on you from all angles. I wrote letters to my family and friends. Angry letters. Apologetic letters. Funny letters. Then I burned them all. I couldn’t write Stardust shite, though. Everything I had to say to her—every single groveling word—had to be said in person.

This game still had its old ritual fascination for Pug; he was following it tensely, smoking a cigar. Once his nostalgia had been keen for the tough youthful combat on the grass, the slamming of bodies, the tricky well-drilled plays, above all for the rare moments of breaking free and sprinting down the field, dodging one man and another with the stands around him a roaring sea of voices. Nothing in his life had since been quite like it. But long ago that nostalgia had departed; those grooves of memory had worn out. To think that lads much younger than his own two sons were out on that chilly field in Philadelphia now, made Victor Henry feel that he had led a very long, multilayered existence, and was now almost a living mummy. “Pug!

Mummie, however, fretted in the nursing-home. She longed for her lost comforts, her maid Julia, and the food she had been accustomed to. The operation was performed, and she was not strong enough to stand it, as her sons had feared. She died with her arms around them both, on the anniversary of her wedding to Kicky just fifty-one years before. She was buried beside him in the grave in the Hampstead churchyard.

There were some hours to spare before his ship sailed, and having deposited his luggage, including a locked leather despatch-case, on board, he lunched at the Cafe Tewfik near the quay. There was a garden in front of it with palm trees and trellises gaily clad in bougainvillias: a low wooden rail separated it from the street, and Morris had a table close to this. As he ate he watched the polychromatic pageant of Eastern life passing by: there were Egyptian officials in broad-cloth frock coats and red fezzes; barefooted splay-toed fellahin in blue gabardines; veiled women in white making stealthy eyes at passers-by; half-naked gutter-snipe, one with a sprig of scarlet hibiscus behind his ear; travellers from India with solar tepees and an air of aloof British Superiority; dishevelled sons of the Prophet in green turbans, a stately sheik in a white burnous; French painted ladies of a professional class with lace-rimmed parasols and provocative glances; a wild-eyed dervish in an accordion-pleated skirt, chewing betel-nut and slightly foaming at the mouth. A Greek boot-black with box adorned with brass plaques tapped his brushes on it to encourage customers, an Egyptian girl squatted in the gutter beside a gramophone, steamers passing into the Canal hooted on their syrens. ("Monkeys")

Pardon This word is the most notorious pet hate of the upper and upper-middle classes. Jilly Cooper recalls overhearing her son telling a friend ‘Mummy says that “pardon” is a much worse word than “fuck”.’ He was quite right: to the uppers and upper-middles, using such an unmistakably lower-class term is worse than swearing. Some even refer to lower-middle-class suburbs as ‘Pardonia’. Here is a good class-test you can try: when talking to an English person, deliberately say something too quietly for them to hear you properly. A lower-middle or middle-middle person will say, ‘Pardon?’; an upper-middle will say ‘Sorry?’ (or perhaps ‘Sorry – what?’ or ‘What – sorry?’); but an upper-class and a working-class person will both just say, ‘What?’ The working-class person may drop the t – ‘Wha’?’ – but this will be the only difference. Some upper-working-class people with middle-class aspirations might say ‘pardon’, in a misguided attempt to sound ‘posh’.

There was once a little girl who wanted to play ball with the boys, but they wouldn’t let her.” She made sure she had his full attention before continuing. “So she went home and cut all her hair off.” “Why would she do that?” “So she could pretend to be a boy.” Jay stood up and grabbed a ball to bounce. “She then played and won the tournament for them.” “Did they find out?” He let the ball bounce away to stare at her. “Yes,” Amisha said. “And she was no longer allowed to play. The team struggled to win another tournament, and that’s when they realized they should change the rules.” “But, Mummy, girls still can’t play sports,” Jay said, his young mind confused. “No, they can’t, but if they’re not allowed to do things, we’ll never find out what they can do.” She tapped him on the nose to lighten the mood. “I am so lucky to have three smart sons.” She set the strap of his satchel over his young shoulder. “Maybe one of you will help to change our world. What do you think?

The cultural code of the stiff upper lip is not for her boys. She is teaching them that it is not “sissy” to show their feelings to others. When she took Prince William to watch the German tennis star Steffi Graff win the women’s singles final at Wimbledon last year they left the royal box to go backstage and congratulate her on her victory. As Graff walked off court down the dimly lit corridor to the dressing room, royal mother and son thought Steffi looked so alone and vulnerable out of the spotlight. So first Diana, then William gave her a kiss and an affectionate hug. The way the Princess introduced her boys to her dying friend, Adrian Ward-Jackson, was a practical lesson in seeing the reality of life and death. When Diana told her eldest son that Adrian had died, his instinctive response revealed his maturity. “Now he’s out of pain at last and really happy.” At the same time the Princess is acutely aware of the added burdens of rearing two boys who are popularly known as “the heir and the spare.” Self-discipline is part of the training. Every night at six o’clock the boys sit down and write thank-you notes or letters to friends and family. It is a discipline which Diana’s father instilled in her, so much so that if she returns from a dinner party at midnight she will not sleep easily unless she has penned a letter of thanks. William and Harry, now ten and nearly eight respectively, are now aware of their destiny. On one occasion the boys were discussing their futures with Diana. “When I grow up I want to be a policeman and look after you mummy,” said William lovingly. Quick as a flash Harry replied, with a note of triumph in his voice, “Oh no you can’t, you’ve got to be king.

The man who had him pinned kicked him over again and pointed down at the tire. "Stay down, you little bastard, or we'll rape your mum and skin her alive." Chris clamped his hands over Michael's ears. When Dean edged the truck forwards, Tommy's eyes jumped from his face. "Mum! Mummy! Help me, Mummy! Mum!" The engine bellowed, Tommy cried, Marie screamed, Frank roared, and Chris' pulse thumped in his ears. Locked in a maniacal fit, Dean cackled at the sky, his pointy nose and gaunt face making him look like a satanic Mr. Punch. He edged forward again. As Michael fought against Chris' restraint, he eased off a little. Should he just let him go? Were the images in his mind worse than those outside? When the truck moved forward again, the thick treads of the huge tires biting into the back of Tommy's head, he squeezed tightly once more. No mind could create anything worse than that. Chris looked away too.  Tommy's scream was so shrill Chris thought all of the glass in the cul-de-sac would crack, and he fought harder against his thrashing son to keep him restrained. When he felt like he couldn't fight the boy's will any more, he let go.  Instead of looking outside, Michael fell to the floor in a ball, scuttled beneath some blankets, and covered his ears. From beneath the sheets, Chris heard his small voice singing, "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." Nudging his boy, Chris waited for him to resurface and put a finger to his lips again. They couldn't afford for the looters to hear them no matter how much it took his son away from their dark reality. The sound of a beeping horn was accompanied by Dean howling and laughing, the vehicle's engine releasing a war cry under the weight of his heavy foot. The cacophony of chaos outside got louder. Frank wailed, Marie let out louder screams, the engine roared, the horn beeped, Dean laughed, and Tommy shrieked. Looking outside again, Chris kept his eyes away from Tommy. Instead, he watched George. If there was anyone who would save them, it was him.  Crunch! Crash!  The truck dropped by six inches. Tommy stopped screaming.  When Dean cut the engine, silence settled over the cul-de-sac, spreading outwards like the thick pool of blood from Tommy's crushed head. Marie's face was locked in a silent scream. Frank slumped further and shook with inaudible sobs. The men, even the weasel with the tennis racket, stood frozen. None of them looked at the dead boy.  Turning away from the murder, Chris looked down to find Michael staring back at him. What could he say to him? Tommy was his best friend. Then, starting low like a distant air-raid siren, Marie began to wail.  After rapidly increasing in volume, it turned into a sustained and brutal cry as if she was being torn in two. Chilled

Every child gets a good mother, but not every mother gets a good child.

It is my watch, I must go,” Zhou said, a lump of fear and sadness in his throat. His hand cupped his wife's soft cheek. “Stay indoors and bolt the doors. I will be back later.” This was the third day since the cattle had shown up and the siege had begun. The second time he had said goodbye to the people he loved most. He picked up his boy and, being careful of the metal plates on his armour, squeezed him tightly. “Daddy, brave,” said his son. “Yes, Daddy brave.” He looked over the boy’s head at his wife, “Look after Mummy for me while I am out. I’ll see you later. I love you, both of you.

She laughs. We laugh. Laugh and laugh like I’ve never seen my Mummy laugh before. I’m a good boy. She makes my heart hurt happy. My Mummy loves me. We don’t say that in our house either.

What if Mummy were to come out of hiding at last, only to learn that her younger son had been eaten alive?

Las calaveras y los huesos no me impresionan —dijo Marie—. No tienen nada de humano. No me asustan. Son como cosas de insectos. Si un niño creciera sin saber que tiene un esqueleto, los huesos no significarían nada para él, ¿no es así? A mí me pasa lo mismo. Esto ha perdido todo lo humano. No se los reconoce y por eso mismo no son horribles. Para que algo sea horrible tiene que haber sufrido un cambio que uno pueda reconocer. No hay cambios aquí. Son todavía esqueletos, lo que fueron siempre. La parte que cambió ha desaparecido y no queda ninguna señal. ¿No es interesante?

Mummy had then appeared, telling the press that her son needed his daily dose of iron tonic.

My mummy, she said, 'The Aborigine is a pity, my son.' She said everyone was always insulted by her no matter what she did, so she let herself do the most insulting thing she could think of - take the poison they brought with them and go to town.

Never marry a younger son,’ had been one of her own mother’s maxims. ‘If you fancy a younger son, ask to meet his older brother.’ ‘What if the eldest son is married, Mummy?’ ‘Look elsewhere. One man is much like another when it comes to marriage. As long as he’s kind and has money, you’ll be happy. A woman’s happiness is bound up in her home and family and social life, her husband’s not nearly as important to her as you young girls seem to think.

We were barely out of earshot when Caroline exclaimed, “Mummy, she’s so beautiful and so nice. She’s just perfect. What a jerk Charles must be!” Pat and I burst out laughing at Caroline’s blunt and irreverent assessment. Then we asked about the children’s visit with Prince Harry. Caroline reported first. “It didn’t look like a prince’s room at all, Mom. It looked just like ours. You know, full of books and toys and stuffed animals.” I reminded Caroline that Diana wanted her boys to have a normal upbringing. The only bit of conversation either of them could recall was Harry asking them quite seriously, “Do you two ever fight with each other?” Patrick and Caroline had laughed and said they certainly did. Harry seemed greatly relieved. “Good,” he said, “because my brother and I fight all the time.” I couldn’t coax any more details out of them. We had enjoyed a wonderful, really unforgettable afternoon with Diana. I had been relieved to see her confident, healthy, and realistic--ready to move on to the next stage of her life. She had made an indelible and stunning impression on all of us. Pat and Caroline will certainly never forget their only close contact with the radiant and lovely Princess of Wales. Patrick adored seeing his princess again.

After the shattering events of the past ten days, I was happy to fly home and return to my normal, everyday life. Pat met me at the airport, then we picked up a very unhappy Caroline after school. She’d been missing Patrick desperately since he’d left for college. In my short absence, she’d experienced an unexpectedly rough adjustment to her new high school. This had been a bad time for me to be away. She felt abandoned. Caroline burst into tears of relief the minute she stepped into the car. I just held her close for the twenty-minute ride home. We went straight up to her cozy pink bedroom to talk. She sobbed that she’d been miserable while I was away. “Daddy has been wonderful, but a daddy is not a mommy. I really needed you.” I choked back my own tears. “But, Caroline, darling,” I said, “I was only gone for five days. Just think of William and Harry. Their mummy is never coming back.

At her ninetieth birthday party, as her three great-granddaughters wove necklaces from daisies, and her grandson tied a hanky around his own son's bleeding knee, and her daughters made sure everyone had cake and tea enough, and someone shouted, "Speech! Speech!," Dorothy Nicolson had smiled beatifically. The late-flowering roses blushed on the bushes behind her, and she clasped her hands together, idly rolling the rings that fell now loosely around her knuckles. And then she sighed. "I'm so fortunate," she said, in a slow, rickety voice. "Look at all of you, look at my children. I'm so thankful, so lucky to have..." Her old lips had trembled then, and her eyelids fluttered shut, and the others had rushed around her with kisses and cries of "Dearest, darling Mummy!" so they'd missed it when she said, "... a second chance." But Laurel had heard it. And she'd stared harder at Ma's lovely, tired, familiar secretive face. Scouring it for answers. Answers she knew were there to be found. Because people who'd led dull and blameless lives did not give thanks for second chances.