A writer should have this little voice inside of you saying Tell the truth. Reveal a few secrets here.
The mother's heart is the child's schoolroom.
Pride slays thanksgiving but a humble mind is the soil out of which thanks...
The babe at first feeds upon the mother's bosom but it is always on her heart.
It's not the work which kills people it's the worry. It's not the revolution...
I like it when my mother smiles. And I especially like it when I make her...
My mother was a teacher.
I feel like a semi-single mum.
