and every mother becomes an artist~


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there is an art to raising children;
by providing them with love, warmth and kindness. 
by creating a supportive, happy, and motivated environment
by having open ears, an heart and an open mind to their words, their presence and their opinions [respectively]. 
by being proud of them, for just being them. 



Appreciation post~


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there are some little things that you can never appreciate enough until you don’t get them. 

Today, I realised that Mama always spoke to us kindly. 
She always called out for us with a loving name
or in a warm tone
and one thing she never did
was be harsh to us. 
She never casually picked on us, 
or called us mean things
or even said mean things to us just for the sake of it. 
She never made us feel we weren’t good enough
so long as we put our full in everything we did- 
we WERE good enough. 
and they made us feel that they were proud of us. 
they were always supportive of everything we did
doesn’t matter how absurd an idea was
they advised us and aided us when we needed it most-
both mum and dad.
twenty-one years later- she is still kind and soft in her speech
her words, soothing as ever.
and you can never, ever appreciate that enough
until it’s taken away from you. 

from this day,
I have vowed to be as kind, 
as soft, 
as loving,
and as warm
to the children I may be blessed with. 

between out palms & beyond~


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they say it’s about holding hands,
your fingers intertwined;
but there’s more to it than that
it’s your feels and emotions,
your happiness and sadness,
your tears of joy
and your tears of extreme pain
all clasped between your two palms.

I patiently await the day
you take my hand into yours
our palms pressed so tight
as we start a new life together
we’ll enjoy the ups
and tackle the downs
so long as you’re hand is in mine–
and we’ll make this,
a journey to remember. 

what my mother taught me~


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My mother taught me
That before I leave 
The kitchen
I must clear the work tops
And sponge the table.
I must wash the dishes
And stack the plates. 
I must leave the kitchen

My mother taught me
That before I leave 
The bathroom
I must clean the sink
With Mr Muscle and a brush
I must wipe the water drops
Left on the mirror 
And mop the floor.
I must leave the bathroom

My mother taught me
That before I leave
My bedroom
I must tidy my bed
And plump my pillows
I must fold my clothes
And close my cupboards.
I must leave my bedroom

My mother taught me
Lessons for life
So one day 
I can teach
My own.



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I miss the days
your face would light up
at something as small as my presence,
your deep hugs embracing me
desiring to squash me right into
your dill.

I don’t know what happened
where it is I went wrong
but your glow disappeared,
my presence making no difference
to that of the furniture.

I liked that you
but perhaps it is me;
me thats changed
and you, a simple reaction.


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