In the mothers eyes her smile her stroking touch the child reads the message

In the mother’s eyes, her smile, her stroking touch, the child reads the message: ‘You are there!’

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The mother’s heart is the child’s school-room.

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No language can express the power and beauty and heroism of a mother’s love.

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If evolution really works, how come mothers have only two hands?

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My mother is a walking miracle.

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Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall. A mother’s secret hope outlives them all.

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A mother is a mother still, the holiest thing alive.

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Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother’s love is not.

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Mothers are like glue. Even when you can’t see them, they’re still holding the family together.

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When you look at your mother, you are looking at the purest love you will ever know.

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Acceptance, tolerance, bravery, compassion. These are the things my mom taught me.

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It’s not easy being a mother. If it were, fathers would do it.

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A mother understands what a child does not say.

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To a child’s ear, ‘mother’ is magic in any language.

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Life began with waking up and loving my mother’s face.

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There is no velvet so soft as a mother’s lap, no rose as lovely as her smile, no path so flowery as that imprinted with her footsteps.

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The influence of a mother in the lives of her children is beyond calculation.

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There’s no way to be a perfect mother and a million ways to be a good one.

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To describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power.

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There is nothing as sincere as a mother’s kiss.

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Motherhood: All love begins and ends there.

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