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第2章

But once again, the happy days became sad. On June 15, I stayed home from school to take care of her. Once again she was admitted to the hospital. At first, no one could figure out what was wrong. She remained in intensive care for a week. She began to do better. Then on July 10 she became very sick, and on the eleventh she almost died.

It was getting harder and harder to deal with. Every time she got really sick, she would always come back and do even better.

When the doctors finally realized why she was so sick, they put her on dialysis, a treatment for her kidneys. It seemed to work on August 17, we visited her and she was doing extremely well. When I left, I kissed her and said, “I love you, Mom. See you tomorrow.”

At 6:30 the next morning we received a call telling us she had passed away during the night.

Today, a little over a year since my mom left, I am closer to my father and sister. And along with accepting my family responsibilities, I have gained respect for my mom. I still don’t understand how she managed to accomplish all she did.

As for being adopted, I have no desire to find my real parents. The ones I have had are the only ones I’ll ever need. They taught me to be strong and follow my heart. Watching my mom smile through all her pain taught me that I can accomplish anything. I know she’s with me through this important time in my life, and she’ll guide me in the night direction.

“Thank you, Mom! I love you and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You誰l Never Regret It-the Essence of Motherly Love

永不后悔--母爱的真谛

Time is running out for my friend. While we are sitting at lunch she casually mentions she and her husband are thinking of starting a family. “We’re taking a survey.” she says, half-joking. “Do you think I should have a baby?”

“It will change your life,” I say, carefully keeping my tone neutral. “I know,” she says, “no more sleeping in on weekends, no more spontaneous holidays...”

But that’s not what I mean at all. I look at my friend, trying to decide what to tell her. I want her to know what she will never learn in childbirth classes. I want to tell her that the physical wounds of child bearing will heal, but becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will be vulnerable forever.

I consider warning her that she will never again read a newspaper without thinking: “What if that had been my child?” That every plane crash, every house fire will haunt her. That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die. I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the primitive level of a bear protecting her cub.

I feel I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She might arrange for child care, but one day she will be going into an important business meeting, and she will think her baby’s sweet smell. She will have to use every ounce of discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure her child is all right.

I want my friend to know that every decision will no longer be routine. That a five-year-old boy’s desire to go to the men’s room rather than the women’s at a restaurant will become a major dilemma. The issues of independence and gender identity will be weighed against the prospect that a child molester may be lurking in the lavatory. However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself constantly as a mother.

Looking at my attractive friend, I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the added weight of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about herself. That her own life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. She would give it up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more years-not to accomplish her own dreams-but to watch her children accomplish theirs.

I want to describe to my friend the exhilaration of seeing your child learn to hit a ball. I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog for the first time. I want her to taste the joy that is so real it hurts.

My friend’s look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes. “You’ll never regret it.” I say finally. Then, squeezing my friend’s hand, I offer a prayer for her and me and all of the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this holiest of callings.

The Dress

一件连衣裙

“Do you like my dress?” she asked of a passing stranger. “My mommy made it just for me.” She said with a tear in her eye.

“Well, I think it’s very pretty, so tell me, little one, why are you crying?”

With a quiver in her voice the little girl answered. “After Mommy made me this dress, she had to go away.”

“Well, now,” said the lady, “with a little girl like you waiting for her, I’m sure she’ll be right back.”

“No Ma’am, you don’t understand,” said the child through her tears, “my daddy said she’s up in heaven now with Grandfather.”

Finally the woman realized what the child meant, and why she was crying. Kneeling down she gently cradled the child in her arms and together they cried for the mommy that was gone.

Then suddenly the little girl did something that the woman thought was a bit strange. She stopped crying, stepped back from the woman and began to sing. She sang so softly that it was almost a whisper. It was the sweetest sound the woman had ever heard, almost like the song of a very small bird.

After the child stopped singing she explained to the lady, “My mommy used to sing that song to me before she went away, and she made me promise to sing it whenever I started crying and it would make me stop.”

“See,” she exclaimed, “it did, and now my eyes are dry!”

As the woman turned to go, the little girl grabbed her sleeve, “Ma’am, can you stay just a minute? I want to show you something.”

“Of course,” she answered, “what do you want me to see?”

Pointing to a spot on her dress, she said, “Right here is where my mommy kissed my dress, and here,” pointing to another spot, “here is another kiss, and here, and here. Mommy said that she put all those kisses on my dress so that I would have her kisses for every booboo that made me cry.”

Then the lady realized that she wasn’t just looking at a dress, no, she was looking at a mother... who knew that she was going away and would not be there to kiss away the hurts that she knew her daughter would get.

So she took all the love she had for her beautiful little girl and put them into this dress that her child now so proudly wore.

She no longer saw a little girl in a simple dress. She saw a child wrapped... in her mother’s love.

Mother誷 Hands

母亲的手

Night after night, she came to tuck me in, even long after my childhood years. Following her longstanding custom, she’d lean down and push my long hair out of the way, then kiss my forehead.

I don’t remember when it first started annoying me-her hands pushing my hair that way. But it did annoy me, for they felt work-worn and rough against my young skin. Finally, one night, I shouted out at her, “Don’t do that anymore-your hands are too rough!” She didn’t say anything in reply. But never again did my mother close out my day with that familiar expression of her love.

Time after time, with the passing years, my thoughts returned to that night. By then I missed my mother’s hands, missed her goodnight kiss on my forehead. Sometimes the incident seemed very close, sometimes far away. But always it lurked, in the back of my mind.

Well, the years have passed, and I’m not a little girl anymore. Mom is in her mid-seventies, and those hands I once thought to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family. She’s been our doctor, reaching into a medicine cabinet for the remedy to calm a young girl’s stomach or soothe the boy’s scraped knee. She cooks the best fried chicken in the world... gets stains out of blue jeans like I never could...

Now, my own children are grown and gone. Mom no longer has Dad, and on special occasions, I find myself drawn next door to spend the night with her. So it was late on Thanksgiving Eve, as I slept in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar hand hesitantly ran across my face to brush the hair from my forehead. Then a kiss, ever so gently, touched my brow.

In my memory, for the thousandth time, I recalled the night my young voice complained, “Don’t do that anymore-your hands are too rough!” Catching Mom’s hand in hand, I blurted out how sorry I was for that night. I thought she’d remember, as I did. But Mom didn’t know what I was talking about. She had forgotten-and forgiven-long ago.

That night, I fell asleep with a new appreciation for my gentle mother and her caring hands. And the guilt that I had carried around for so long was nowhere to be found.

A Mother誷 Eight Lies

母亲的八个谎言

As a child, the little boy was born in a poor family. Even for eating, the family often got lack of food ,whenever the time for eating, the mother often gave the children her portron of rice in her bowl. She always said, eating this rice, my children, I’m not hungry.

-His mother’s first lie

When the boy was getting to grow up, the persevering mother gave her spare time on Sunday for fishing in the rural river nearby the country town, to supply the boy with calcium supplements. The fish was cious and tasted fresh. While the boy was eating fish, mother sat beside him and ate the bones. Boy was touched, then passed the fish to mother’s bowl with the chopsticks, and asked her to eat. But she refused and gave it back. The mother said, eat it, son, I don’t realy like fish.

-His mother’s second lie

When in junior high school, to collect the boy and his sister’s tution. The mother, and sewing worker, went to the economic enterprise to bring some used-matches boxes, sticking them up at night to cover the needs of the family. In a winter night, the boy woke up from the sleep and saw his mother continuing the work of sticking the boxes in the dim light; bending her back. Boy said, mom, go to sleep, you would work tomorrow morning. Mother smiled and said, go to sleep, dear, I am not tired.

-His mother’s third lie

At the time of final term, mother stood outside the door where the boy took the exam inside everyday to accompany the boy. It was the mid-summer and sun was shining. The strong and perservering mother waited for him under the sunshine for several hours. As the bell rang, which indicated that the final exam had finished, mother welcomed and passed him a glass of tea that put in a bottle, told the boy to drink it. The very thick tea was not as thick as his mother’s love, which was much thicker. Glaring at her cracking hips and sweats full of head, the boy gave the glass back and asked her to drink. Mother said, drink, it boy, I’m notthirsty. QQnUsxBgL651g0MXxOz+yWYgFnWN2A+f5uo4oMYxRK//pOTCelh0wMGbZZUehLGm



第3章

-His mother’s fourth lie

After father’s death for illness, the mother played the role as mother as well as father. Depending on the little income in the sewing factory, the mother brought up their children with hardships. For the boy’s education fund, the family was very complicated. There was a Uncle Li who lived by making watches in alley where was underneath a telegraph pole. When he had known it, came to help her in a big problem and a small problem, carrying the coal and lifting up the water.Human’s hearts are not indifferent like plants’. The neighbors saw that and advised the mother married again, it was not necessary to bear so much. However, year after year, the mother didn’t marry again. Some people adviced again, she was stubborn, didn’t care to their advices, she said, I don’t need love.

-His mother’s fifth lie

After graduated and got a job, boy’s retired mother was sincere to work in a nearby marketplace to support herself. The children far away from her had known it, often sent her some money to help her infulfill her needs, but she was stubborn for not accepting the money, even sent the money back. She said, I have enough money.

-His mother’s sixth lie

The boy had taught for 2 years in his graduated school. afterwards, he gained the Master Degree from one of the U.S. famous university. After graduated, he finally worked in a America scientific research institution, and the salary is high. As being rich, the boy intended to take his mother to enjoy her life in America, but she refused. She said, I’m not used to.

-His mother’s seventh lie

After entering her old age, mother got a flank cancer and had to hospitalized. The boy, who lived in miles away and cross the ocean, directly went home to visit her, she had been at the edge of death. The mother looked old. When the boy looked, how the disease broke her body, heart was hurt and tears flowed. But the mother said, don’t cry, my dear, I am not in pain.

-His mother’s last lie

Pray for My Mother

为母亲祈祷

Dear God,

Now that I am no longer young, I have friends whose mothers have passed away. I have heard these sons and daughters say they never fully appreciated their mothers until it was too late to tell them.

I am blessed with the dear mother who is still alive. I appreciate her more each day. My mother does not change, but I do. As I grow older and wiser, I realize what an extraordinary person she is. How sad that I am unable to speak these words in her presence, but they flow easily from my pen.

How does a daughter begin to thank her mother for life itself? For the love, patience and just plain hard work that go into raising a child? For running after a toddler, for understanding a moody teenager, for tolerating a college student who knows everything? For waiting for the day when a daughter realizes her mother really is?

How does a grown woman thank for a mother for continuing to be a mother? For being ready with advice (when asked) or remaining silent when it is most appreciated? For not saying “I told you so”, when she could have uttered these words dozens of times? For being essentially herself-loving, thoughtful, patient, and forgiving?

I don’t know how, dear God, except to bless her as richly as she deserves and to help me live up to the example she has set. I pray that I will look as good in the eyes of my children as my mother looks in mine.

A daughter

Quotations About Mothers

解读母爱--

关于母爱的名人名谚

All that I am or ever hope to be, I owe to my angel Mother. I remember my mother’s prayers and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life.

-Abraham Lincoln

My mother was the most beautiful woman I ever saw. All I am I owe to my mother. I attribute all my success in life to the moral, intellectual and physical education I received from her.

-George Washington

There never was a woman like her. She was gentle as a dove and brave as a lioness... The memory of my mother and her teachings were, after all, the only capital I had to start life with, and on that capital I have made my way.

-Andrew Jackson

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

-Oliver Wendell Holmes

God could not be everywhere and therefore he made mothers.

-Jewish proverb

The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.

-Author Unknown

In all my efforts to learn to read, my mother shared fully my ambition and sympathized with me and aided me in every way she could. If I have done anything in life worth attention, I feel sure that I inherited the disposition from my mother.

-Booker T. Washington

It seems to me that my mother was the most splendid woman I ever knew... I have met a lot of people knocking around the world since, but I have never met a more thoroughly refined woman than my mother. If I have amounted to anything, it will be due to her.

-Charles Chaplin

爱在无言瞬间

Father’s love can be compared to a mountain. Although we do not look at it everyday, when you fall down, it’s just behind you. From your parents you learn love and laughter and how to put one foot before the other.

父爱像一座高山。虽然我们不必每天仰望,可是跌倒时,山就在背后。是父母教会了你如何去爱,如何去笑,如何走路。

Fathers Have a Unique Job

父亲的职责无可取代

By Debbie Farmer

If parents had job descriptions mine would read: organize bills, playmates, laundry, meals, laundry, carpool, laundry, snacks, outings and shopping, and laundry.

The only thing on my husband’s description would be the word “fun” written in big red letters along the top. Although he is a selfless caregiver and provider, our children think of him more as a combination of a jungle gym and bozo and clown.

Our parenting styles compliment each other. His style is a nonstop adventure where no one has to worry about washing their hands, eating vegetables, or getting cavities. My style is similar to Mussolini. I’m too busy worrying to be fun. Besides, every time I try, I am constantly outdone by my husband.

I bought my children bubble gum flavored toothpaste and I taught them how to brush their teeth in tiny circles so they wouldn’t get cavities. They thought it was neat until my husband taught them how to rinse by spitting out water between their two front teeth like a fountain.

I took the children on a walk in the woods, and after two hours, I managed to corral a slow ladybug into my son’s insect cage. I was “cool” until their father came home, spent two minutes in the backyard, and captured a beetle the size of a Chihuahua.

I try to tell myself I am a good parent even if my husband does things I can’t do. I can make sure my children are safe, warm, and dry. I’ll stand in line for five hours so the children can see Santa at the mall or be first in line to see the latest Disney movie. But I can’t wire the VCR so my children can watch their favorite video.

I can carry my children in my arms when they are tired, tuck them into bed, and kiss them goodnight. But I can’t flip them upside down so they can walk on the ceiling or prop them on my shoulders so they can see the moths flying inside of the light fixture.

I can take them to doctor appointments, scout meetings, or field trips to the aquarium, but I’ll never go into the wilderness, skewer a worm on a hook, reel in a fish, and cook it over an open flame on a piece of tin foil.

I’ll even sit in the first row of every Little League game and cheer until my throat is sore and my tonsils are raw, but I’ll never teach my son how to hit a home run or slide into first base.

As a mother I can do a lot of things for my children, but no matter how hard I try-I can never be their father.

Twilight Time

黄昏时分

Reflexively I reached to turn on my car radio, preset to KGBX, the soft-rock station I always listen to on my early-morning drives to my job at the post office. Then I glanced at my 14-year-old daughter in the passenger seat and thought better of it.

Liz wore a dress. That in itself bespoke the seriousness of the occasion. We were on our way to the Springfield, Missouri, district wide music competition, where Liz would be playing a flute solo, her very first. I knew from my own competition days back in Minnesota that it messed with your concentration to hear any music besides the piece you were planning to play.

“Dad said he might come.” Liz said. Her father hadn’t been a big part of her life since our divorce 10 years earlier, and she sounded both excited and scared.

Boy, did I know that feeling-wanting to impress your father and at the same time, being terrified of letting him down? Suddenly I was 12 years old again, sitting onstage at the Minnesota state music competition, fingers poised on the keyboard of my shiny black Pan Italia accordion. I looked out at the audience of proud parents. Then I saw him. My dad. He sat at the end of a row, arms folded, crew cut bristling. His piercing blue eyes narrowed behind his black-rimmed glasses and focused unwaveringly on me.

I completely choked. I’d practiced my contest piece for months until I knew it by heart, inside and out. But my fancy accordion might as well have been a cardboard box that afternoon. I forced out some semblance of a tune and fled the stage in tears.

No consolation came from my father, a World War II veteran who epitomized authority. He didn’t say a thing to me. He just took the wheel of our station wagon, his mouth a grim line as we set off on the 150-mile drive back to Duluth. I didn’t say anything either. What could I say, really, after what I’d done? I knew how hard Dad worked to scrape together enough money for my accordion and lessons. But the one time he was able to come to a competition, I let him down.

The farther we drove, the more the silence in our station wagon grew until it stood like an impenetrable wall between Dad and me. It seemed an especially cruel punishment considering music had been our deepest connection.

By the time I came along, the last of five children, my father was worn out from the demands of supporting a large family. My brothers and sisters and I tiptoed around him when he came home from his shift at Jeno’s Pizza factory. But on Sunday afternoons, Dad would sit back in his recliner and ask me to play for him. He loved the music of the Big Band era, and none more than the song Twilight Time. I taught myself the tune from the sheet music, just for him. It didn’t seem to matter that my rendition was lacking in style. My father would hum along, his eyes closed, tears escaping from the corners as if I’d transported him to some magical, heavenly place. QQnUsxBgL651g0MXxOz+yWYgFnWN2A+f5uo4oMYxRK//pOTCelh0wMGbZZUehLGm

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