Poorly Toddler Quotes

Poor Metias. He’s not supposed to be a father. He’s supposed to be out on his own, independent and free to concentrate on his job as a young captain. But somebody has to take care of me, and I make his life so much harder than it needs to be. I wonder what things must have been like for him back when our parents were still alive, when I was a toddler and Metias was a teenager and he could focus on growing up instead of helping someone else grow up. Still, Metias hasn’t complained once. Not a single time. And even though I wish our parents were here, sometimes I’m really happy that this is our little family unit, just me and my brother, each watching out for no one but the other. We do the best we can.

On Work and Charity Likewise (Maria) watched (Martin's) toils and knew the measure of the midnight oil he burned. Work! She knew that he outdid her, though his work was of a different order. And she was surprised to behold that the less food he had, the harder he worked. On occasion, in a casual sort of way, when she thought hunger pinched hardest, she would send him in a loaf of new baking, awkwardly covering the act with banter to the effect that it was better than he could bake. And again, she would send one of her toddlers in to him with a great pitcher of hot soup, debating inwardly the while whether she was justified in taking it from the mouths of her own flesh and blood. Nor was Martin ungrateful, knowing as he did the lives of the poor, and that it ever in the world there was charity, this was it.

The new command398 is simple enough for a toddler to memorize and appreciate, profound enough that the most mature believers are repeatedly embarrassed at how poorly they comprehend it and put it into practice: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.

He was sooty, muddy, and clearly exhausted, and his clothes reeked of smoke. "Poor old Buster," she said with a frown of concern. Luke had earned the affectionate family nickname as an energetic toddler, mowing down everything in his path and leaving broken teacups and vases in his wake.

The major impairments of ADD — the distractibility, the hyperactivity and the poor impulse control — reflect, each in its particular way, a lack of self-regulation. Self-regulation implies that someone can direct attention where she chooses, can control impulses and can be consciously mindful and in charge of what her body is doing. Like time literacy, self-regulation is also a distinct task of development in human life, achieved gradually from young childhood through adolescence and adulthood. We are born with no capacity whatsoever to self-regulate emotion or action. For self-regulation to be possible, specific brain centers have to develop and grow connections with other important nerve centers, and chemical pathways need to be established. Attention deficit disorder is a prime illustration of how the adult continues to struggle with the unsolved problems of childhood. She is held back precisely where the child did not develop, hampered in those areas where the infant or toddler got stuck during the course of development.

Evangeline had lain here, in this bed. Paced this floor. She'd been younger than Ruby when she came to this house, trying to find her way in the world, and she left it pregnant and scared, with no one to help her. Ruby thought of all the women who came into Warwick Hospital and St. Mary's Dispensary, seeking treatment. Heavy with child, or writhing in pain from venereal diseases, or carrying newborns and toddlers. All the burdens of being poor and female, as Dr. Garrett put it. No one to catch you if you fell. Looking down at the worn pine floor, Ruby was struck by a realization; she'd been in this room before, when she was barely more than a whispered thought. "Will you excuse me?" Mr. Whitstone said. "I'll just be a minute." She nodded. It was late in the afternoon. She wanted to get back to her lodgings before dark. Though she wasn't looking forward to the long voyage back to Tasmania, she was eager to share what she'd learned during her year abroad. This moment in Evangeline's room, she knew, had nothing to do with the rest of her life and everything to do with it. She would leave this house changed, but no one would ever know she'd been here.

In a study in 1995, Betty Hart and Todd Risley of the University of Kansas found that children in professional families heard on average 2,100 words an hour. Working-class kids heard 1,200; those whose families lived on welfare heard only 600. By the age of three, a doctor’s or lawyer’s child has probably heard 30m more words than a poor child has. Well-off parents talk to their school-age children for three more hours each week than low-income parents, according to Meredith Phillips of the University of California, Los Angeles. They put their toddlers and babies in stimulating places such as parks and churches for four-and-a-half more hours. And highly educated mothers are better at giving their children the right kind of stimulation for their age, according to Ariel Kalil of the University of Chicago. To simplify, they play with their toddlers more and organise their teenagers.

Leaving the house in general really doesn’t mix with toddlers, but long lines just indicate poor parental planning and judgment.

March 11 Of course you haven’t been fulfilled in this world. It’s a sign that you have been designed for a world to come. It is an item on each of our theological outlines, but we don’t actually live as though we believe it. We all say that we believe that this is not all there is. We say we really do believe that there is life after this one ends. Our formal theology contains the fact of a new heaven and a new earth to come. But we tend to live with the anxiety and drivenness that come when we believe that all we have is this moment. Here’s the real-life, street-level issue: if you don’t keep the eyes of your heart focused on the paradise that is to come, you will try to turn this poor fallen world into the paradise it will never be. In the heart of every living person is the longing for paradise. The cry of a toddler who has just fallen down is a cry for paradise. The tears of the school-age child who has been rejected on the playground are tears of one reaching out for paradise. The pain of aloneness that a person without friends or family feels is the pain of one longing for paradise. The hurt the couple feels as their marriage dissolves is the hurt of those crying out for paradise. The sadness that the old man feels as his body weakens is the sadness of one who longs for paradise. We all have this longing, even when we are not aware of it, because it was placed there by our Creator. He has placed eternity in each one of our hearts (Eccl. 3:11). Our cries are more than cries of pain; they are also cries of longing for more and better than we will ever experience in this fallen world. When you forget this, you work very hard to try to turn this moment into the paradise it will never be. Your marriage will not be a paradise. Your job will not be the paradise you long for. Your friendships will not be the paradise your heart craves. The world around you will not function like paradise. Your children will not deliver paradise to you. Even your church will not live up to the standard of paradise. If you’re God’s child, paradise has been guaranteed for you, but it will not be right here, right now. All the things that disappoint you now are to remind you that this is not all there is and to cause you to long for the paradise that is to come. The dreams that die remind you that this is not paradise. The flowers that wilt remind you that this is not paradise. The sin that captivates you should remind you that this is not paradise. The diseases that infect you are to remind you that this is not paradise. Live in hope because paradise is surely coming, and stop asking this fallen world to be the paradise it will never be.

Had these wise storytellers lived in modern America, they might point to a poor, black transgender woman or an asylum-seeking toddler alone in a detainment center and say: God is in this one. This one—the one on the outermost ring of the rankings we’ve made up about who matters. This one—the one farthest from whom we have centered. This one is made of our same flesh, blood, and spirit. When we hurt her, we hurt our own kin. This one is One of us. This one is Us.

I wondered if Erica was right. At the moment, the nearby slopes were full of evidence that skiing could be difficult. For every skier who came down the mountain well, there were many others coming down badly. I could see a dozen people who’d wiped out at the base of the mountain. As I watched, one poor soul shot off the run entirely and fell into Vail Creek. And things didn’t get much better once everyone had taken their skis off. Ski boots seemed to have been designed to make walking as difficult as possible. Everywhere I looked, people were wobbling about in them like toddlers taking their first steps. One person crashed to the ground right in front of us, his skis and poles flying every which way.

Yes, life is the opposite of rare and precious. It’s everywhere; it’s wet and sticky; it has all the restraint of a toddler left too long at day care without a juice box. And life, in all its infinite and tender intergalactic variety, would have gravely disappointed poor gentle-eyed Enrico Fermi had he lived only a little longer, for it is deeply, profoundly, execrably stupid.

If it’s a girl,” she continued, “let’s not allow her too much education.” “I agree,” Matsuda answered. “Too much schooling is no good anyway.” “Of course, we’ll have to send her for the compulsory years.” “No, they’re the worst. Let’s hire tutors.” “Far too expensive. I’ll never agree to that,” Fumiko replied. “No, she can just go to the local school. When she graduates from junior high, I’ll keep her at home and treat her like a maid. By this time of the morning, she’ll be up cooking our breakfast. I’ll be lying in bed like this, taking it easy with you.” “That sounds nice.” “So it appeals to you. In that case, I’ll make her cook breakfast when she’s in grammar school.” “Will a first-grader be able to cook?” “She won’t have any choice. And she’d better get the rice just right.” “The poor little thing!” “But it’s best to be strict with girls — better for them.” “True.” “I’m not going to have a girl who thinks too much. Let’s raise her so she’ll never talk back. I don’t mean just so she can restrain herself — I want her incapable of talking back — a girl who has no opinions of her own. A girl who does what she’s told, automatically, like an idiot. Even her face must be an idiot’s face.” “A girl like a doll.” “Yes. When she’s small, I’ll train her to serve other people, like a good little wife — like the girls in ancient China. As soon as she gets out of school, I’ll marry her off.” “I’ll go and visit her. I’ll take her some of that sugar we got as a present, behind your back.” “Will you indeed.” “But you never use it to cook with. There’s too much, anyway.” “How do you know?” “You told me.” “Did I? Well, take it, then.” “I’ll go and see her every Sunday.” “Her husband won’t like that.” “That’s all right. He’ll understand. I’ll find her a kind husband.” “He won’t stay that way. I’ll encourage him to be cruel and mean. You must encourage him, too — to have affairs and drink. If you meet any beautiful women, you mustn’t keep them for yourself. Send them over, lots of them, to him, just like the sugar. She won’t get any sympathy when she comes over to complain. I’ll show her my body. ‘Look!’ I’ll tell her: ‘Look at what your father does to me. I can bear it, and so should you!

Had these wise storytellers lived in modern America, they might point to a poor, black transgender woman or an asylum-seeking toddler alone in a detainment center and say: God is in this one. This one—the one on the outermost ring of the rankings we’ve made up about who matters. This one—the one farthest from whom we have centered. This one is made of our same flesh, blood, and spirit. When we hurt her, we hurt our own kin. This one is One of us. This one is Us. So let us protect her. Let us bring her gifts and kneel in front of her. Let us fight for her and her family to have every good thing we want for ourselves and our families. Let us love this one as we love ourselves. The point of this story was never that This One is more God than the rest. The point is that if we can find good in those we’ve been trained to see as bad, if we can find worth in those we’ve been conditioned to see as worthless, if we can find ourselves in those we’ve been indoctrinated to see as other, then we become unable to hurt them. When we stop hurting them, we stop hurting ourselves. When we stop hurting ourselves, we begin to heal.

Poor little thing,’she said out loud. Her head was suddenly full of her own babies –Jake and Freddie, born two years apart but known as ‘the boys’in family shorthand –as sturdy toddlers, schoolboys in football kit, surly teenagers and now adults. Well, almost. She smiled to herself. Kate could remember the moment she saw each of them for the first time: red, slippery bodies; crumpled, too- big skin; blinking eyes staring up from her chest, and her feeling that she had known their faces for ever. How could anyone kill a baby?