Mother - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The traditional work of mother's and women is the glue of society, providing the bed rock of mental health. Thus, in a society run with a financial system and obsessed by financial status, power and vanity, society crumbles. And so, it is not a women's issue to care properly for women, it is everyone's issue. If a woman is disadvantaged so are her kids, male and female. If a mother is disadvantaged, so is the father of her children and her parents who may be called upon for support... and her friends if her mental health suffers and she needs to reach out. Supporting women, mothers especially, is the smartest thing we can do as a society, to mend our communities and regain a sense of happiness and solidarity with one another.
There was a fire in that old aga everyday that I thought of myself as a child, and even long into adulthood. It was a whole thing, more than metal, more than nostalgia. Those aromas and the warmth it brought are so intwined with memories of my mother's love, those small moments of affection that built the foundation of who I am today.
"I'd be up early, voice blaring. My mother would be upstairs, 'putting her eyebrows on' as she used to say. Then she'd shush me and I'd complain of her reducing my rights to freedom of expression, only to hear her stock response, 'I'm not seeking to reduce your rights, love, just your volume."
My mother was one for surprises, each day a multitude of tiny things... how they made me smile from toe to lips. Which hand was my cookie in? Which way would we walk to school? Would be splashing in puddles or leaping over? Would we dance our special jig if we saw a cat? It was so fun, all those everyday adventures... I cans still feel her excitement at seeing a simple flower or the way the light played upon the path. In a life so ordinary it was her that was extraordinary, not because she was given so much, yet because she made it that way. As the baker turns flour and water to bread, as God turns seed and water to flower, mother turned the mundane into fascination and love; she was my heaven, my superhero.
My mother, looking like a disco ball in red lipstick and platinum hair, wearing her smile and her kind eyes, places the milk in the cart. We talk of my imaginary game and I tell her of her role, and mine and granny's and grandpa's. She puts on the paper crown I made her home and I giggle. Then I see the chocolate milk, I had some at a party once. I want it. I ask. She says no and I pout. But I know that tone means no in a way that's not play and she goes back to talking about our game. Suddenly I'm thinking of my character, how I want to be the bad guy this time. I practice my evil laugh. It's good.
Mama's apron was a staple of my childhood, patterned with all things British, from teapots to the palace guards. When I think of it the aromas of her fresh baking come flooding in to my brain, my heart leaps and there is that moment of serenity. I see her in that apron, arms wide, a hug just a few steps away.
The mother's love I have for my children is the ordinary kind. It is no more than any mother I know and respect. It is the kind of love that would move heaven and earth for my child if I had the power. It is the kind of love that says "I would give my life for my child any time, any place." That doesn't make me unusual, I am only normal. It is the kind of love that would take on anyone, anyplace, anytime if they threaten the wellbeing of my children. That is ordinary love, it's the kind we all have inside. I mean the be the spark that ignites that in every person. I mean to do it in such a away that no-one is in danger at any time. Because this ordinary love of mine extends to everyone who loves like I do. I would rather live on my knees than die on my feet because my children need their mother alive, but I'm only on my knees because that is how I pray. Inside I am on my feet, I am lighting the kind of righteous fires that don't ever die. You can't kill ideas. So here is a K.I.S.S. from poor stupid me. The girl who can't do the hard sums but is highly creative.
The sweet smell of jasmine lingers in the air so that when I cross the threshold it's like a shot of adrenaline right to my heart. Silence crashes down around me. Even the fall leaves have ceased their scudding along the stone path. Then she steps out from behind the rice-paper room divider in her silly floral skirt and blouse almost covered by the peach cardigan. She smiles. I must be surrounded. She could have me killed right now but she won't. Where's the sport in that? So much more fun to have me loose my mind. But I won't. I won't. She steps nearer, the jasmine is now so heady it's almost poison, I want to hold my breath but this is not going to be quick. Mother's little visits never are.
I have a lover.
I know you don’t approve,
So I’ll just wait a few years.
Maybe then, will you understand?
I love my Lover,
I tell her I love her,
Are you sad I never said it to you?
Me and my lover
Have a daughter.
Will you tell her you love her?
I don’t think you understand,
The concept of suicide,
And how desperate I am,
To get away.
If I left, what would you say?
I don’t think you understand,
The concept at hand,
Do you understand,
How to love your son?
Just like you loved your daughter?
I hope someday,
When my children are roaming the earth,
That you will be their informal grandma,
And not their unheard of grandmother.
The gang steps forward with confidence. They don't want me, they want Darwin and one look tells them he's not my flesh. They expect easy pickings, that I'll give him up without a fight. My brain is racing for ways out. There are only four of them, I could cut them down and be home in time for lunch but what about Darwin? I don't need him traumatized like that. He's a gentle flower, loving, caring, and he's been through enough in his short life. But alive is better than dead so I tell him to close his eyes like when we play hide 'n' find. I stow him between my legs and realize just how foolish I've been. I could be cutting down three while the fourth takes him hostage, the odds are on my side but I like surety when it comes to my son. I'm not going to get it, I tense my legs and draw out my blade. I say a prayer that he keeps his eyes shut tight. Then from no-where another gang encircles the other.
In the trader's market Darwin stays close. I used to leave him behind, he's safer by far at the old bank, but he has to learn how to trade. I speak to him roughly. Advertising an emotional bond is just giving your competition a way to break you, he knows this and he plays along. The contemptuous looks I used to get have changed. Their eyes flick from me to him and back again, he's strong now, not a liability but an advantage and they want him. No longer do I have to worry about the kidnappers and the filthy cannibals but now every adult who's looking at their own physical demise wants his muscle. Anyone gets too close and I butt in as if I'm protecting my servant. If they actually try something they'll find out how far I will go to keep him safe and so will I. Under that strong body he's still a kid and it kills me that all they see is a commodity they want to acquire. He's my son- my only son - and I am the only mother he recalls.
She wasn't a girl anymore and she never would be again. No longer did she hang on mom's words or want to be just like her. Now their similarities irked her and she was determined to be as different as possible. One March three years ago she bagged up all of her clothes and took them to the thrift store, coming home with a whole new bunch – black, black and more black. A few weeks later her waist-length blonde hair became a two-foot mohawk, pink with blue tips. Her mother quickly learnt not to try to be similar or bond on the same issues, each attempt simply drove her daughter to new extremes. Mom started eating meat again so her daughter could scowl at her and call her a hypocrite, “Let her have the vegetarian badge,” she thought, “better than the 'drug-addict' or 'pregnant at seventeen' badge.” Her mother stopped wearing make-up and let her hair grow grey, if her daughter wanted to “win” she'd make the contest real easy...let her be the victor while she still had a future.
The snow alighted on Dean's face softer than the kisses his mother used to plant, and just as cold as the memories had turned. In this swirl of white the world was washed anew, like a new page, but he didn't want it. Under this pristine layer of crystalline water was the path he trod as a child, walking with her hand in hand. He wanted to turn the pages back and dwell on the fine details: the crows feet around her eyes that deepened when she smiled, how she always wore Dad's rubber boots with four layers of socks rather than buy her own, how she never got too old to splash in the puddles. But life was pulling him forward into the unknown with one hand and erasing his past with the other. His thoughts were thicker than the blizzard, "She's gone and who cares? The colours of spring will come but she won't." He turned around to see his prints, he wasn't there anymore but they were. He figured when he got home he'd look for hers, her letters, her favourite novels, her recipe book.
There's something magical about Deanna's mother. She just loves everything her daughter does, praises her and makes jovial conversation. They have the kind of bond a civilization could be forged on, just by following their example. I'd swap every possession I own to have a mother like that. I mean it. Anything at all. Mine just let me know what a disappointment I was: not clever enough, not pretty enough, not thin enough. No more judgement than the media gives me everyday I suppose. But I needed Mom to be a refuge from the craziness of life's storm, not a hurricane in her own right.
The mountain is where time stops. The rock does not care for minutes or hours, it doesn't care for days and hardly for years. A mountain only regards the eons. In the rocky trails Eddy could forget about everything, he could just move in a place where yesterday was inconsequential and tomorrow also. Here his mother was just one person in millions many kilometres away and he could mute her infernal nagging to nothing. “Your brother got a better degree, your brother is getting married, your brother...” His brother lived a state over and never even phoned. He was the one fetching her groceries and paying her bills, but the old witch was never going to stop playing favourites. But what was he going to do? Leave her to starve? If it wasn't for his long mountain treks, which she resented, he thought he could become a violent man. It was that caged bear feeling he had to hike out of his bones before he returned to make her some dinner.
Saskia sat on the bar stool, head slumped onto her hands watching her mother season the fish. By the time she was done each trout had a belly full of onion and herb. Saskia could taste it already and there wasn't even the aroma of cooking yet. Her stomach growled noisily and she had to swallow back a pool of saliva. Mom's voice was like that teacher on Snoopy, "Waaa waaa waaa. Homework. Waa, waa , waaa. Grandma. Waa, waa, waa. Dessert" The last word seemed important. She raised her head.
"Ah, so you can hear me then." She slumped right back down again, it was just a ruse to get her attention. Dessert. She began to think on that idea a bit more. She could make one. What's easy? What has no chopping, peeling or mixing and is completely unhealthy? Mom was talking again, "Waa waa, waa. Your father. Waa, waa, waa. Messy room. Waa, waa, waa." The fish were in the oven now and the rice was steaming with spices. Dinner. She'd settle just for dinner. If only it could cook faster...
Amber moved across the room like her leg had fallen asleep under Todd's weight. Hobbling like a woman triple her age her face was a beautiful cross between a grin and a grimace. The kids started laughing but she continued anyway, the kettle was whistling and she wanted her tea. What else was she to dunk the biscuits in?
Mother reveals her “big picnic” and I almost manage to stifle my laugh. I'm must be two years old again instead of twenty-two. There are all my “old favourites” there. Little pots of everything with too much sugar and more packaging than the space-shuttle. She's cut my grapes in half and the strawberries too. If I couldn't see the repressed grin under her poker-face I'd be worried but instead I just smile and pull out the fresh baked baguettes with brie and cranberry I brought to share. “Oh, ho!” she says, “so you are grown up then!”
On the seat in front sits a woman and child, the kid relaxes into her arms so fully it's like they are one organism, melted together. He has a look of contentment on his face, the kind I wish I could wear. He has everything he wants in life right there, bouncing up and down on this rickety bus with him. The view from the window disappears behind a swirl of dry mud, raised up in the vortexes revealed by the red-brown particles. The woman reaches up and pulls the skinny window closed. Now that her son is drifting into sleep her face has become grave. Without his timid gaze she has no reason to feign nonchalance.
The woman in front of me is showering her child in praise and I know it should warm my heart but there is a part of me that just doesn't care if he gets to choose his candy or if she selects it for him. For the fourth time she goes through the display but it's just too many options for a pre-schooler, he's simply overwhelmed. The line is now snaking back as far as the aisles of cereal. I want to tell her the kid needs help to choose, or just a choice of two, but I know advice from strangers never goes down well with these yummy mummies. Even against the music of the store her voice carries, “Oh cutie-pie, would you like mummy to tell you them again?” The kid nods and runs his hands over the wrappers just to hear them crinkle. In seconds my basket is on the floor and I'm heading out the door. I had the choice of loosing my temper or my shopping; but since I shop here three times a week it's better to keep the peace and a slice of my dignity.
In the half-light a woman approaches, young, perhaps still a teenager. I'd like to holster my weapon but I can't, protocol is pretty strict. Her hair is long like it's never been cut, hanging in dusty clusters. Her face is gaunt, her brown skin appears almost grey and her eyes lack the light that should come with her youth. Despite her legs being thin her middle is oddly lumpy. My eyes fall expecting a bomb but instead a head pops out and a hand no bigger than two-bite cookie comes out. She stops, hands raised. She's no threat, she's just a mother wanting formula for her infant now that her wasting body refuses to give anymore to the infant she nurtures. Back home she's be ushered into a hospital, showered in medical and social help, given whatever her child needs. But we aren't here to save her and my heart breaks a little more. We have billions for bombs and munitions but not enough to feed the hungry.
Binka picked up the roughly made cup and turned it in the light to see the greenish glazing all the better. As she did so Mila's eyes followed her mother's movements, studying her facial micro-expressions. Binka knew not to be too quick to praise, her daughter always suspected it was shallow when she did so, too long and her little heart would fall into her wintry boots. She let her face flood with a smile and Mila clapped her little hands, pulsing on her toes. "It's beautiful, my darling. It has that rustic charm that takes back to my own childhood. I will treasure it always!"
Lara is slumped at the breakfast table, her brows creased and face tense. When Mom sits, coffee in hand, she asks "What's up?" her tone casual and light.
Lara's scowls at her scrambled eggs, "I don't know whether to do basketball or swimming. I like both but I only see Claire at swimming."
Mom takes another sip and then continues, serious faced, "I see, well, what's does your gut tell you? Which one do you want more?"
Lara's face crumples again, "I don't know!"
Mom makes her face straighter than a poker player and says, "Lara, you're not going swimming." For a fraction of a second the corners of Lara's mouth twitch upwards, until her conscious mind asserts control again. Then Mom says "Actually, no, you're not going to basketball." Lara's face is serious all the way from her eyes to her mouth, no pleasure at all, not even masked. "OK," Mom says, "We'll finish this set of swim lessons, then switch to just basketball. You can still see Claire every week, OK honey?"
Steam followed the plate of biscuits as Mama brought them to the table. I was seven or eight, and I can close my eyes, and voila, my big brother, my little sister, and I are seated at the kitchen table, covered with an oil table cloth, and our legs dangling in air. Real butter, and eggs fried to perfection, completed the morning feast. No bacon, never any meat because those things “cost too much money. We are not rich, and money does not grow on trees.” But as I remember that breakfast prepared by my mother’s hands, it makes my mouth water and warms my heart. I have an appetite for a not forgotten piece of the past that is always partially satisfied just by remembering. I believe Mama was wrong - we absolutely, one hundred percent were rich.
My mother is a one of a kind and I don't mean it in a good way. Being a single mum would make you think that she'd put her child first but for my mum it was the complete opposite. She was so wrapped up in herself she'd almost forget that I exist. I always had to be her judge on what's she wears and on how she looks. It gets tiring and definitely embarrassing walking around with a mother that looks like a 50 year old wannabe model from the 90s.