I looked at this tiny, perfect creature and it was as though a light switch had been turned on. A great rush of love flooded out of me.
Experiment is the mother of knowledge.
We know you have a great mind and all, Mother, but you don’t have much sense.
I love my mother, not as a prisoner of atherosclerosis, but as a person; and I must love her enough to accept her as she is, now, for as long as this dwindling may take.
I got so discouraged, I almost stopped writing. It was my 12-year-old son who changed my mind when he said to me, "Mother, you've been very cross and edgy with us and we notice you haven't been writing. We wish you'd go back to the typewriter. That did a lot of good for my false guilts about spending so much time writing. At that point, I acknowledged that I am a writer and even if I were never published again, that's what I am."
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