Amos Stevens
New Member
Just the opposite here...
"You know Mothers day is coming..have you gotten me anything yet"
"You know Mothers day is coming..have you gotten me anything yet"
Please Remember Sunday May 8th Is Mother's Day
- Thread starter Lollipop
- Start date
Lollipop
Banned
Close Your Eyes and Wish for the One Thing
Close your eyes and wish for the one thing
You cannot do without, and when you do,
Near your heart you'll find it, always there,
Treasure that is dear but not so rare,
Held in the mesh that all your dreams flow through.
In truth, no gift more happiness can bring,
And so this day I give my love to you.
Copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Close your eyes and wish for the one thing
You cannot do without, and when you do,
Near your heart you'll find it, always there,
Treasure that is dear but not so rare,
Held in the mesh that all your dreams flow through.
In truth, no gift more happiness can bring,
And so this day I give my love to you.
Copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Amos Stevens
New Member
YEP Lollipop...been to the dollar store 
My mother died when I was 7 years old, right around this time of year. I always wish I could drive up to Orillia and visit her grave at this time, but I can't (May is usually not a good month for earning money).
My mother was a very beautiful woman when she was younger, but too many years of heavy drinking, smoking and spending too much time out in the sun aged her prematurely, and by the time I was born (she was 39 years old), she looked like she was in her sixties.
She was an alcoholic. I think, from my short flashes of memory, she might also have been manic-depressive, hence the descent into alcohol abuse. She always did her best to look her best, though; and I was always well looked after. Marrying my father was probably not the best thing for her. He was - and still is - someone who doesn't suffer inadequacies in others with patience or understanding, and he soon found the woman he married was not living up to his expectations.
She worked as a housekeeper for the Lakeshore Psychiatric Hospital here in Toronto (which has long since closed). She would come home and have nightmares from what she witnessed there. My father was unsympathetic. She later went on to work as a housekeeper at Toronto General Hospital, and used to have lunch with another Polish woman who worked at the Banting and Best Institute. In just one of a series of weird coincidences involving my father's estrangement from his family of origin, the woman she was having lunch with was actually my father's sister, her own sister-in-law, but she never knew it because they never exchanged names.
My father, always looking for a better job, found one in Orillia, and he moved us there in February, 1965, to a tiny apartment - they slept in the living room, and I had the tiny bedroom that was just big enough for one single sized bed and a small dresser. This was a bit of a come down from the early days of their marriage when he owned a house, and he could buy her all the jewellery and pretty things she wanted.
My mother's health was failing, by this time. Drinking and smoking had taken their toll, and she was suffering from heart disease. At this time, the medical establishment believed that women didn't suffer from heart disease, so when she went to the hospital complaining of chest pain, they sent her home, saying she was a hypochondriac.
The next time she went into the hospital, she died there.
I was there the day she died. At that time, it was against hospital rules for children under 12 to visit the wards, so I was left on my own in the waiting room, while my father went in to visit her. While I was waiting, I suddenly got this feeling that something awful was happening, and I had to see my mother right away. I flew up the corridor, then took a right turn and ran down to the end of the hallway. I don't know how I found my mother's room, but I did. I got there, but I was too late - she had just died.
There was no one to care for me while arrangements for the funeral were being made. My father took me to the funeral home and I was there when he chose the casket. The next day, when her body had been prepared and was in the viewing room, he had to go to work, so he left me there, in the funeral home, by myself in the room with my mother's body. I went to the casket, and put my hand on hers. Her hand was very cold. I knew she wasn't going to get up, but I wasn't quite sure why, or how. I never cried.
According to my father, the priest at the Catholic church was reluctant to perform the funeral because he was busy organising the church's next bingo event. There were only two people at the funeral - my father and myself. No one from my father's job showed up - my father is very successful at remaining isolated from the people around him.
I remember my mother's name spelled out in flowers on the mound of earth next to the open grave.
My father remarried in December, 1965, to, as it turned out, another alcoholic. I remember on the day of their wedding, as I went up the stairs to the flat we would be living in together, I was thinking about what I would call her; and decided it was okay to call her "mummy". My life from that point on was a living hell, because his priority was his new wife, not me. My stepmother's drinking was all my fault. All the problems in the family were all my fault. If I spoke to someone outside of the family, looking for help, I was punished. I stopped calling her "mummy" on my 18th birthday. I had decided she hadn't earned that right.
My stepmother died on May 19th, 1998. Prior to her death, I went down to Nova Scotia to visit her and my father, both in the hospital at the time, in different cities. The visit with my father revealed his true feelings about me - I was a lesbian whore that made that "sainted woman's" (my stepmother's) life a misery, I was nothing but a mean and evil child, a selfish, heartless bitch who thwarted her every attempt to be a loving mother to me. (For example, this was the woman to whom I had told my deepest, darkest secret - which she then told my father, whereupon he exercised his prerogative to kick the crap out of me.)
When I had gone to see my stepmother in hospital, where she was dying from colon cancer, an odd thing occurred. She had been given morphine, as a result of which she had acquired Alzheimer's like symptoms, but she recognized me, knew who I was. As I was sitting with her, she looked up at me, and said, "is everything okay between us?" I said, "yes."
I went home from that visit with my father's words ringing in my ears, words I will never forget to my dying day.
I have never married, nor even had a boyfriend because, to be frank, I didn't want to be the victim of any more abuse from a man. I guess this is why my father calls me a lesbian, though I'm not sure why I'm a "whore", as well. I have no brothers and sisters, and when my father dies, I will be all alone. I don't have many memories of my childhood - I look at photographs, and have no recollection of the circumstances around any of them. My life, after age 7 until well into adulthood, is a book of mostly blank pages, with only the occasional image, usually of something awful that happened. I guess that's a mercy.
I hope those of you with whom you share a good relationship with your mother have a happy day. I envy you.
My mother was a very beautiful woman when she was younger, but too many years of heavy drinking, smoking and spending too much time out in the sun aged her prematurely, and by the time I was born (she was 39 years old), she looked like she was in her sixties.
She was an alcoholic. I think, from my short flashes of memory, she might also have been manic-depressive, hence the descent into alcohol abuse. She always did her best to look her best, though; and I was always well looked after. Marrying my father was probably not the best thing for her. He was - and still is - someone who doesn't suffer inadequacies in others with patience or understanding, and he soon found the woman he married was not living up to his expectations.
She worked as a housekeeper for the Lakeshore Psychiatric Hospital here in Toronto (which has long since closed). She would come home and have nightmares from what she witnessed there. My father was unsympathetic. She later went on to work as a housekeeper at Toronto General Hospital, and used to have lunch with another Polish woman who worked at the Banting and Best Institute. In just one of a series of weird coincidences involving my father's estrangement from his family of origin, the woman she was having lunch with was actually my father's sister, her own sister-in-law, but she never knew it because they never exchanged names.
My father, always looking for a better job, found one in Orillia, and he moved us there in February, 1965, to a tiny apartment - they slept in the living room, and I had the tiny bedroom that was just big enough for one single sized bed and a small dresser. This was a bit of a come down from the early days of their marriage when he owned a house, and he could buy her all the jewellery and pretty things she wanted.
My mother's health was failing, by this time. Drinking and smoking had taken their toll, and she was suffering from heart disease. At this time, the medical establishment believed that women didn't suffer from heart disease, so when she went to the hospital complaining of chest pain, they sent her home, saying she was a hypochondriac.
The next time she went into the hospital, she died there.
I was there the day she died. At that time, it was against hospital rules for children under 12 to visit the wards, so I was left on my own in the waiting room, while my father went in to visit her. While I was waiting, I suddenly got this feeling that something awful was happening, and I had to see my mother right away. I flew up the corridor, then took a right turn and ran down to the end of the hallway. I don't know how I found my mother's room, but I did. I got there, but I was too late - she had just died.
There was no one to care for me while arrangements for the funeral were being made. My father took me to the funeral home and I was there when he chose the casket. The next day, when her body had been prepared and was in the viewing room, he had to go to work, so he left me there, in the funeral home, by myself in the room with my mother's body. I went to the casket, and put my hand on hers. Her hand was very cold. I knew she wasn't going to get up, but I wasn't quite sure why, or how. I never cried.
According to my father, the priest at the Catholic church was reluctant to perform the funeral because he was busy organising the church's next bingo event. There were only two people at the funeral - my father and myself. No one from my father's job showed up - my father is very successful at remaining isolated from the people around him.
I remember my mother's name spelled out in flowers on the mound of earth next to the open grave.
My father remarried in December, 1965, to, as it turned out, another alcoholic. I remember on the day of their wedding, as I went up the stairs to the flat we would be living in together, I was thinking about what I would call her; and decided it was okay to call her "mummy". My life from that point on was a living hell, because his priority was his new wife, not me. My stepmother's drinking was all my fault. All the problems in the family were all my fault. If I spoke to someone outside of the family, looking for help, I was punished. I stopped calling her "mummy" on my 18th birthday. I had decided she hadn't earned that right.
My stepmother died on May 19th, 1998. Prior to her death, I went down to Nova Scotia to visit her and my father, both in the hospital at the time, in different cities. The visit with my father revealed his true feelings about me - I was a lesbian whore that made that "sainted woman's" (my stepmother's) life a misery, I was nothing but a mean and evil child, a selfish, heartless bitch who thwarted her every attempt to be a loving mother to me. (For example, this was the woman to whom I had told my deepest, darkest secret - which she then told my father, whereupon he exercised his prerogative to kick the crap out of me.)
When I had gone to see my stepmother in hospital, where she was dying from colon cancer, an odd thing occurred. She had been given morphine, as a result of which she had acquired Alzheimer's like symptoms, but she recognized me, knew who I was. As I was sitting with her, she looked up at me, and said, "is everything okay between us?" I said, "yes."
I went home from that visit with my father's words ringing in my ears, words I will never forget to my dying day.
I have never married, nor even had a boyfriend because, to be frank, I didn't want to be the victim of any more abuse from a man. I guess this is why my father calls me a lesbian, though I'm not sure why I'm a "whore", as well. I have no brothers and sisters, and when my father dies, I will be all alone. I don't have many memories of my childhood - I look at photographs, and have no recollection of the circumstances around any of them. My life, after age 7 until well into adulthood, is a book of mostly blank pages, with only the occasional image, usually of something awful that happened. I guess that's a mercy.
I hope those of you with whom you share a good relationship with your mother have a happy day. I envy you.
Lollipop
Banned
TD that took alot to share with us!
Thank you, I know it was not easy for you growing up like that! My father was the drunk he died at 53 and my mother was the bitter one! And she never let us forget our father was worthless! I did get to spend part of his last three years in a pretty good relationship! Which I am grateful I did get. I can't share all of your pain because I did not live through it! But I can say alot of us would love to be your friend and welcome sharing our pains and happiness with you!
Sometimes their are layers we have to pull off(not steven's clothes)(you knew I would have to get one dirty thing in) to get to where we need to be in our lifes I
am in the same process just different circumstances! But I am determined and I know you are too!
You are not a mother, do not have a living mother, but you will be thought of on Mother's Day!
Thank you, I know it was not easy for you growing up like that! My father was the drunk he died at 53 and my mother was the bitter one! And she never let us forget our father was worthless! I did get to spend part of his last three years in a pretty good relationship! Which I am grateful I did get. I can't share all of your pain because I did not live through it! But I can say alot of us would love to be your friend and welcome sharing our pains and happiness with you!
Sometimes their are layers we have to pull off(not steven's clothes)(you knew I would have to get one dirty thing in) to get to where we need to be in our lifes I
am in the same process just different circumstances! But I am determined and I know you are too!
You are not a mother, do not have a living mother, but you will be thought of on Mother's Day!
Attachments
Lollipop
Banned
The Sweetest Gift
One day a mother went to a prison
To see an erring but precious son
She told the warden how much she loved him
It did not matter what he had done
She did not bring to him
A parole or pardon (free)
She brought no silver (brought no gold)
No pomp nor style (longed to see)
It was a halo bright
Sent down from heaven's light
The sweetest gift
A mother's smile
She left a smile you can remember
She's gone to heaven from heartaches free
Those walls around you could never change her
You were her baby and ere will be
She did not bring to him
A parole or pardon (free)
She brought no silver (brought no gold)
No pomp nor style (longed to see)
It was a halo bright
Sent down from heaven's light
The sweetest gift
A mother's smile
It was a halo bright
Sent down from heaven's light
The sweetest gift
A mother's smile
The sweetest gift
A mother's smile
One day a mother went to a prison
To see an erring but precious son
She told the warden how much she loved him
It did not matter what he had done
She did not bring to him
A parole or pardon (free)
She brought no silver (brought no gold)
No pomp nor style (longed to see)
It was a halo bright
Sent down from heaven's light
The sweetest gift
A mother's smile
She left a smile you can remember
She's gone to heaven from heartaches free
Those walls around you could never change her
You were her baby and ere will be
She did not bring to him
A parole or pardon (free)
She brought no silver (brought no gold)
No pomp nor style (longed to see)
It was a halo bright
Sent down from heaven's light
The sweetest gift
A mother's smile
It was a halo bright
Sent down from heaven's light
The sweetest gift
A mother's smile
The sweetest gift
A mother's smile
ORANGATUANG
Wildfire
The hurt never stops does it TD?..some one once said to me "get over it she's dead"..
Well i hit that bitch that hard she is now missing an couple of teeth...you never got over it..i know and i have my days like sunday iam choffing off early down to were my mum is buried and i will be putting red and white carnations on her grave ....i only go there mothers day and her birthday...so i will NEVER forget my mother...
Well i hit that bitch that hard she is now missing an couple of teeth...you never got over it..i know and i have my days like sunday iam choffing off early down to were my mum is buried and i will be putting red and white carnations on her grave ....i only go there mothers day and her birthday...so i will NEVER forget my mother...
ORANGATUANG
Wildfire
Go get him Lollipop..cheeky buggar aint he..
Amos Stevens
New Member
Happy Mother's Day!
This is for the mothers who have sat up all night with
sick toddlers in
their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Mayer
wieners and cherry
Kool-Aid saying, "It's okay honey, Mommy's here."
Who have sat in rocking chairs for hours on end
soothing crying babies
who can't be comforted.
This is for all the mothers who show up at work with
spit-up in their
hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in
their purse.
For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies
and sew Halloween
costumes. And all the mothers who DON'T.
This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies
they'll never see. And
the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes.
This is for the mothers whose priceless art
collections are hanging on
their refrigerator doors.
And for all the mothers who froze their buns on metal
bleachers at
football or soccer games instead of watching from the
warmth of their
cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see me,
Mom?" they could
say, "Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for the
world," and mean it.
This is for all the mothers who yell at their kids in
the grocery store
and swat them in despair when they stomp their feet
and scream for ice
cream before dinner. And for all the mothers who count
to ten instead,
but realize how child abuse happens.
This is for all the mothers who sat down with their
children and
explained all about making babies. And for all the
(grand) mothers who
wanted to, but just couldn't find the words.
This is for all the mothers who go hungry, so their
children can eat.
For all the mothers who read "Goodnight, Moon" twice a
night for a year.
And then read it again. "Just one more time ."
This is for all the mothers who taught their children
to tie their
shoelaces before they started school. And for all the
mothers who opted
for Velcro instead.
This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to
cook and their
daughters to sink a jump shot.
This is for every mother whose head turns
automatically when a little
voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know
their own offspring
are at home -- or even away at college.
This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to
school with stomach
aches assuring them they'd be just FINE once they got
there, only to get
calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them
to please pick
them up. Right away.
This is for mothers whose children have gone astray,
who can't find the
words to reach them.
This is for all the step-mothers who raised another
woman's child or
children, and gave their time, attention, and love...
sometimes to tally
unappreciated!
For all the mothers who bite their lips until they
bleed when their 14
year olds dye their hair green.
For all the mothers of the victims of recent school
shootings, and the
mothers of those who did the shooting.
For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who
sat in front of
their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came
home from school,
safely.
This is for all the mothers who taught their children
to be peaceful,
and now pray they come home safely from a war.
What makes a good Mother anyway?
Is it patience?
Compassion?
Broad hips?
The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a
button on a shirt,
all at the same time?
Or is it in her heart?
Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or
daughter disappear
down the street, walking to school alone for the very
first time?
The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed
to crib at 2 A.M.
to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?
The panic, years later, that comes again at 2 A.M.
when you just want to
hear their key in the door and know they are safe
again in your home?
Or the need to flee from wherever you are and hug your
child when you
hear news of a fire, a car accident, a child dying?
The emotions of motherhood are universal and so our
thoughts are for
young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and
sleep deprivation...
And mature mothers learning to let go.
For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers.
Single mothers and married mothers.
Mothers with money, mothers without. This is for you
all. For all of us.
Hang in there. In the end we can only do the best we
can. Tell them
every day that we love them.
This is for the mothers who have sat up all night with
sick toddlers in
their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Mayer
wieners and cherry
Kool-Aid saying, "It's okay honey, Mommy's here."
Who have sat in rocking chairs for hours on end
soothing crying babies
who can't be comforted.
This is for all the mothers who show up at work with
spit-up in their
hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in
their purse.
For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies
and sew Halloween
costumes. And all the mothers who DON'T.
This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies
they'll never see. And
the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes.
This is for the mothers whose priceless art
collections are hanging on
their refrigerator doors.
And for all the mothers who froze their buns on metal
bleachers at
football or soccer games instead of watching from the
warmth of their
cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see me,
Mom?" they could
say, "Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for the
world," and mean it.
This is for all the mothers who yell at their kids in
the grocery store
and swat them in despair when they stomp their feet
and scream for ice
cream before dinner. And for all the mothers who count
to ten instead,
but realize how child abuse happens.
This is for all the mothers who sat down with their
children and
explained all about making babies. And for all the
(grand) mothers who
wanted to, but just couldn't find the words.
This is for all the mothers who go hungry, so their
children can eat.
For all the mothers who read "Goodnight, Moon" twice a
night for a year.
And then read it again. "Just one more time ."
This is for all the mothers who taught their children
to tie their
shoelaces before they started school. And for all the
mothers who opted
for Velcro instead.
This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to
cook and their
daughters to sink a jump shot.
This is for every mother whose head turns
automatically when a little
voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know
their own offspring
are at home -- or even away at college.
This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to
school with stomach
aches assuring them they'd be just FINE once they got
there, only to get
calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them
to please pick
them up. Right away.
This is for mothers whose children have gone astray,
who can't find the
words to reach them.
This is for all the step-mothers who raised another
woman's child or
children, and gave their time, attention, and love...
sometimes to tally
unappreciated!
For all the mothers who bite their lips until they
bleed when their 14
year olds dye their hair green.
For all the mothers of the victims of recent school
shootings, and the
mothers of those who did the shooting.
For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who
sat in front of
their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came
home from school,
safely.
This is for all the mothers who taught their children
to be peaceful,
and now pray they come home safely from a war.
What makes a good Mother anyway?
Is it patience?
Compassion?
Broad hips?
The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a
button on a shirt,
all at the same time?
Or is it in her heart?
Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or
daughter disappear
down the street, walking to school alone for the very
first time?
The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed
to crib at 2 A.M.
to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?
The panic, years later, that comes again at 2 A.M.
when you just want to
hear their key in the door and know they are safe
again in your home?
Or the need to flee from wherever you are and hug your
child when you
hear news of a fire, a car accident, a child dying?
The emotions of motherhood are universal and so our
thoughts are for
young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and
sleep deprivation...
And mature mothers learning to let go.
For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers.
Single mothers and married mothers.
Mothers with money, mothers without. This is for you
all. For all of us.
Hang in there. In the end we can only do the best we
can. Tell them
every day that we love them.
I spent a long time looking on the internet for just the right card, but couldn't find what I was looking for. Then I came across a poem I thought was simple, yet sweet, and made up this little card myself.
This is for everyone whose mother is no longer with you, for this difficult time for you on Mother's Day. My thoughts are with you.
This is for everyone whose mother is no longer with you, for this difficult time for you on Mother's Day. My thoughts are with you.
Lollipop
Banned
Thank you Amos, that was very nice! Tomorrow I will not see either child, one is preparing for exam week, the other has to make sure his stores run!
But I know they are both doing what makes them happy! And that has always been my goal "to have Happy Children" and they are! So I will have a very nice Mother's Day!
But I know they are both doing what makes them happy! And that has always been my goal "to have Happy Children" and they are! So I will have a very nice Mother's Day!
Happy Mother's Day to all your Moms, Mothers, Mums, Mas, Grandmothers, Stepmoms, Aunts, single Dads, caretakers, family and friends--all of you who have touched a child's life in some way. You all make a difference, have had a positive influence, whether you have children of your own or not, and you are loved and appreciated.
You all make a difference, have had a positive influence, whether you have children of your own or not, and you are loved and appreciated. HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!
Lollipop
Banned
The Mother Psalm
The Lord is my co-pilot I shall not rush
He maketh me to hit all the green traffic lights
He leadeth me through shopping hassles
He restoreth my composure
He giveth me strength to make ends meet
for my family's sake
Yes, though I walk through
the valley of laundry
I will fear no evil for thou art with me
Thy perspective and sense of humor
they comfort me
Thou preparest a table before me
with the assistance of take out
Surely clutter and confusion shall follow me
most of the days of my life
and I shall dwell
in a happy home forever
Amen
The Lord is my co-pilot I shall not rush
He maketh me to hit all the green traffic lights
He leadeth me through shopping hassles
He restoreth my composure
He giveth me strength to make ends meet
for my family's sake
Yes, though I walk through
the valley of laundry
I will fear no evil for thou art with me
Thy perspective and sense of humor
they comfort me
Thou preparest a table before me
with the assistance of take out
Surely clutter and confusion shall follow me
most of the days of my life
and I shall dwell
in a happy home forever
Amen