mothers knows best narrative essay
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Mother Knows Best There is a quote that says, “Mothers are angels who teach their children to fly. ” Indeed mothers are angels, even though we often think that mothers were meant to torture us especially in our adolescent years when we would rather go out with friends instead of washing the dishes or doing our homework, our mothers nevertheless become our pillar, not just of faith but also of strength. Mothers may often be misunderstood but it does not mean that they don’t know best.
My earliest memory of my mother is that of a radiant face. For me she was the most beautiful woman alive and nothing compares with her. Even if she was unlike the celebrity mothers who wear designer clothes or gets to eat in fancy restaurants all the time, my mother is, in other words, real. My mother seemed to be passive and quiet however she was a formidable foe if you cross her. I loved the way she combed her hair getting ready for bed, letting those deep brown locks loose, shiny against the glare of the overhead light.
I loved the way she would caringly wipe my back for perspiration after playing under the hot sun all afternoon not minding the fact that I smelled like a sweaty sock worn for two weeks. On the incidents that my sibling and I cross my mother, those big green eyes of her would squint in disapproval, mouth pursed. But I came to love that about her. Even if I was born seven years after my brother, this never prompted her to play favorites. But rather, she made it a point to be fair and equal among her children.
Answer:
Mother Knows Best There is a quote that says, “Mothers are angels who teach their children to fly. ” Indeed mothers are angels, even though we often think that mothers were meant to torture us especially in our adolescent years when we would rather go out with friends instead of washing the dishes or doing our homework, our mothers nevertheless become our pillar, not just of faith but also of strength. Mothers may often be misunderstood but it does not mean that they don’t know best.
My earliest memory of my mother is that of a radiant face. For me she was the most beautiful woman alive and nothing compares with her. Even if she was unlike the celebrity mothers who wear designer clothes or gets to eat in fancy restaurants all the time, my mother is, in other words, real. My mother seemed to be passive and quiet however she was a formidable foe if you cross her. I loved the way she combed her hair getting ready for bed, letting those deep brown locks loose, shiny against the glare of the overhead light.
I loved the way she would caringly wipe my back for perspiration after playing under the hot sun all afternoon not minding the fact that I smelled like a sweaty sock worn for two weeks. On the incidents that my sibling and I cross my mother, those big green eyes of her would squint in disapproval, mouth pursed. But I came to love that about her. Even if I was born seven years after my brother, this never prompted her to play favorites. But rather, she made it a point to be fair and equal among her children.
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