Mother Essay For Kids

A mother is the female parent of the child who gives birth to her child, nourishes by feeding milk and food and cares all through the life.

Essay on Mother

Nothing is considered to be better than a mother, her love and care. Let your kids to write something about you or recite on you in his/her school. These essay on mother are written in very simple words especially for your kids and school going children. You can select any mother essay given below according to the need and requirement:

Mother Essay 1 (100 words)

A mother is the most precious person in the life on everyone about which we cannot describe completely in the words. However some of the valuable moments with our mother can be described. A mother is the most beautiful and caring person in our lives. She always cares every moment for our every need without her any personal intention. In the morning, she calls us very softly to get rise from the bed and during night she tell us lovely stories to make us sleep with beautiful dream. She helps us to get ready for school with proper breakfast and hygienic lunch. She always waits at door for us while we return from school. She helps us to do our school homework.

Mother Essay 2 (150 words)

The role of the mother in our lives is always different and precious than other involved in our life. Of course we are truly loved and cared by our mothers every moment all through the day. She never wants back anything from her kids instead she loves us with open heart. We as a child also love and care her from our heart but our love cannot be compared with her. Mother is unique in this world in the life of everyone’s as a living goddess who always takes all the pains of her child and gives love and care.

She is the one who spends her sleepless nights during our sickness and other bad days. She happily involves in our happy moments and understands our each and every likes and dislikes. She always guides us to go ahead at right path and do right things in the life. She is our first teacher who teaches us at every step of life. She teaches us to always be in discipline, behave in well manners and make us understand about our roles and responsibilities towards family, society and country.

Mother Essay 3 (200 words)

Our mother is the most important person in our life who always nurture us like a true nature. She be with us always and care for us every moment. She carry us in her womb for 9 months by bearing lots of pain and discomfort however she always become happy by thinking about us in her real life. She gives birth to us without complaining a little bit. We can never compare her genuine love and care all through our life but we should respect and love her always. Every person who has a mother in their life is really lucky and blessed with lots of blessings from God.

A mother is very ordinary woman who never considers her own happiness in front of her kids. She always shows her interests in our every activity and laugh. She has a selfless soul and very kind heart full of lots of love and care. She is a woman with strong willpower who always teaches us of how to face the toughest challenges of the life. She always inspires us to achieve good things in our life by overcoming all the hardships of the life. She is the first teacher of everyone whom teachings are always proved to be precious and valuable all through the life.


Mother Essay 4 (250 words)

A mother is the first, foremost and best friend of everyone’s life as no one can be true and real like her. She is the one and only who always stands with us in our all good and bad times. She always cares and loves us more than we deserve and others in her life. She gives us first priority of her life and gives us glimpse of hope in our bad times. The day we born, it is our mother who becomes really happy. She knows our all the reasons of happiness and sadness and try to make us happy every time.

There is a special bond exists between mother and kids which can never be end. A mother never less her love and care to her kids and always give equal love and care to her every kid but we all kids together can never give her a little love and care like her in her old age. Even after she never understands us wrong and forgive us like a small child. She understands our each and every activity, we can never fool her.

She never wants us to get hurt by someone and teaches us to behave well with others. In order to pay attention and pay thankfulness to the mothers, May 13th has been declared as a Mother’s Day to celebrate every year. No one pay even a single role in our life as a mother. We too always take care of our mother all through the life.

Mother Essay 5 (300 words)

A mother is only one in everyone’s life whom another can never replace her in our heart. She is like true nature who always knows only to give us, not taking back anything in return. We see her from the first moment of our life when we open our eyes in this world however we feel her nine months before in her womb. The first word of us becomes mom whenever we start speaking. She is our first love, first teacher and first of all our first friend in this big world. When we born we are nothing and unable to do anything however it is she who make us grow and develop in her arms. She makes us able to understand and do anything in this world.

She is always only for us and nurture us like God. If there is any God on the earth, it is our mother. No one can care and love us like our mothers and no one can sacrifice everything for us like her. She is the best woman of our life whom place can never be replaced by anyone in the future. Even after being tired she become always ready for us to do everything like a tired less one. She wakes up us in the early morning very politely, prepares breakfast and gives lunch and water bottle as usual.

She waits for us in the afternoon at the door after doing all the daily chores. She prepares a delicious dinner in the night and always takes care of our likes and dislikes. She helps us in doing our homework and project. She never tired off giving lots of love and care like ocean can never be water less. She is unique and only one in the whole universe whom nothing can replace. She is the true solutions of our all the small and big problems. She is one who never says bad to her child and always takes side of her child.


 

Mother Essay 6 (400 words)

Nothing in this world can compare with the true love and care of our mother. She is the one and only woman of our life who loves and cares us so much without any personal intention of her. A child is everything for a mother. She always encourages us to do any hard things in the life whenever we become helpless. She is the good listener of us and listen everything bad or good what we say. She never restricts and limits us to any limitation. She makes us able to differentiate between good or bad.

True love is another name of a mother which only a mother can have. From the time we come in her womb, takes birth and throughout her life in this world, she give us tired less care and love. Nothing is precious than a mother which one can be blessed by the God thus we should always thankful to the God. She is the embodiment of true love, care and sacrifices. She is the one who turns a house into a sweet home by giving birth to us.

She is the one who starts our schooling first time at home and becomes a first and lovely teacher of our life. She teaches us behaviour lessons and true philosophies of the life. She loves and cares us from the existence of our life in this world means from her womb till she alive. She gives birth to us after bearing lots of pain and struggles but in turn she always gives us love. There is no love in this world which is so lasting, strong, unselfish, pure and devoted. She is the one who brings lights in our life by removing all the darkness.

Every night she tells us about mythological tales, stories about the God and Goddess and other historical stories of king and queen. She always becomes very anxious about our health, education, future and our safety from other strangers. She always leads us towards right direction in the life and most importantly she scatters true happiness in our life. She makes us strong human being mentally, physically, socially and intellectually from a small and incapable child. She always takes side of us and prays to God for our wellness and bright future all through the life even after we make her sad sometimes. But there is lots of sadness behind her always happy face which we need to understand and take care of her.

Also see:

Speech on Mother

Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day Quotes

Slogans on Mother’s Day

Essay on Mother’s Day

Slogans on Mother

By Nina Sichel

I.

I have come full circle, and it is nearly time to leave.  I arrived here two decades ago, just months from the birth of my first child, and now the youngest is ready for college, my husband has moved ahead of me into a new job and a new city, and I am left to stem the flow of twenty years in Tallahassee.  I want to contain our time here neatly in a cool, clear bowl.  I want a lake we can return to, and gaze into, and see, in the depths, ourselves.  I want this tumble of remaining time to pause, so I can make sense of its passing, so I can choose and gather the markers by which to remember our years here.  But time rolls perversely on, and it carries me dizzily along.  I pan for memories, trying to net the flow, but everything rushes out of grasp, and all I gather are glints of time past, not its essence.

I look at my children, grown into adulthood now, and think of what this move must mean to them, how it will affect them.  This has always been their home.  This is where they were born and raised and their ventures out have always led to returns.  There are whole lifetimes to be sorted through and wrapped up, identities redefined as we slip into new skins, evolve into new creatures, our circumstances and surroundings and self-images shifting with time and the need to move on.  And I wonder, what will my children keep as they find their new places in this world?  And what will cling to me?

I feel a creeping nostalgia for what might have been, sorrow and loss for a place I might have allowed myself to become attached to.  But I was raised with no real roots, an American child in Venezuela, growing up moving from house to house all through my childhood.  I believed I’d find home in another place, another time.  Resistance to settling became part of who I am.  I’ve lived here longer than anywhere else in my life, but I still won’t root, and for all these years, I’ve been ready to leave.

Until now.  Now I find myself unprepared, and questioning this turn in feeling, this wistful desire for belonging I never had.  It is only now, knowing I am leaving, that I begin to wish I had sunk more of myself into this place, lived more fully and deliberately in the time I had here.  Is nostalgia anything more than an attempt to hold on to a place or time that is being pulled away from me? What am I afraid of losing?

I know there is much I will miss.  I love the languid lift of Spanish moss on a balmy breeze, the magnificent spread of live oak branches, their generous shade.  The rhythmic rise and fall of the land, and its gentle slope to the sea.  The slow-moving tannic rivers, flashing sunlight, the egrets starkly white against the dark brush.  The transparent aqua springs, so cold on torrid summer afternoons.  The beaches, with their wide and blinding sands, unpeopled, the dolphins arcing the waters, the hot salt air.  The sky, constantly rearranging its constellations and its clouds.  Floral palettes, picked from my springtime azaleas and placed on our round oak table.  Nostalgia is a gentle pull, though its hold is strong.  I am as wary of entrapment as I am of letting go.

Fiercer attachments bind me here, too, heartholds which are ripping apart as the time approaches for my departure — my children, splintering away to different colleges and new lives, the friends I’ve grown to love as family, the people I will leave behind, histories I have shared.

The births and deaths and cycles I’ve been a part of, forever tied to this place, receding into memory.  Mothering.  Nursing my babies, watching the stars move through the trees as I rocked, rocked, rocked.  The warmth of my infant children, bundled close, their slackening mouths, their drift to sleep.  As they grew older, the splash-pool, the tree house, chickenpox, Girl Scouts, soccer practice.  Music lessons, art lessons, summer camp.  Stitches, broken bones, fevers.  Formal dances, broken hearts.  The pets we’ve buried. The crisp air at the Christmas tree farm, where each year we have brought the children and the dogs and stomped through row after row of trimmed Virginia pine, looking for just the right tree.  Returning to the car for spiced apple cider while the tree is shaken to free loose needles, and then wrapped and tied onto the roof.  Driving lessons, the first time out alone, the first time in a storm, my held breath till they were safely back in the driveway.  The way I still ache with the memory of their long walk down the hallway to kindergarten, alone.  Their slow move toward independence.

This is a yearlong transition, and another one will follow.  This year my husband is gone, starting his new life while I try to wrap up our old one.  We meet on occasional weekends and fake normalcy.  Days and nights spin on.

If I tell you that I wrap myself around his pillows at night, and that I won’t wash the pillowcase he slept on till he returns, will it seem sentimental and silly?  Overblown?  If I tell you that his worn shirt is hanging on the hook by the door, and that I sink my face into it when I pass, breathe in the scent he left — if I tell you that I tried to wear it once, but something twisted inside me, and I couldn’t — will I seem obsessive?  If I tell you that I store up my anger and my stress till it explodes on his few weekends home, will I seem selfish, mean, unbalanced?

There are piles of papers to go through — children’s artwork, old bank statements, letters, Christmas cards — fragments of a settled life.  Where to begin?  Each drawing carries the memory of the time in which it was made, the life-stage of that child, that parent, the family.  I think, this is silly emotionalism, it isn’t the real thing.  But it might be.  Without those markers to bring me back, will I be able to remember?  I find a series of mermaid pictures my daughter drew with her bright, erasable markers, each one slightly different, each telling a different story.  How do I choose only one, to be representative?  And what, exactly, can one picture represent?  I look at them and see my daughter’s mind at work, her playfulness, her inventiveness — which aspect am I asking myself to sacrifice?  Can there be any part of her that does not deserve memorializing?

There is a book of basic numbers.  My daughter taught my son to add and subtract before he attended his first day of school, because she already knew how to do that and thought it was important.  They are only numbers.  They are an entire relationship, frozen in a place and time that I do not want to forget.

Here are mementos of trips we’ve taken, here are the games we played, unused craft supplies, musical instruments.  A toddler’s rocking chair, a puppet theater, the gown I made for my daughter’s eighth grade dance.  A softball glove outgrown, cleats left to gather dust in the back of a closet, jewelry and trinkets.  Junk.  The sand dollars we collected once, at sunset on St. George Island, as the water calmed in the shallow places and the sky shimmered and my husband peeled shrimp to boil.

How do others do this?  My mother periodically ransacked our closets, cleaning them out, keeping them organized.  I’d come home to find my clothes or toys had been given away “to the poor children,” she’d say, so I could feel good about it.  But I missed them.  What is there now to trigger memories of my childhood?  The only thing left are photographs.  Albums and albums of them, organized chronologically, and my mother and I pore over them every time I return.  But they only tell part of the story of my childhood.  And they tell it from my parents’ point of view.

Will my children miss their things?  Do they mean more to me than they do to them?

How, in the midst of such confusion, such conflicting emotions, all the daily obligations — how can I make the decisions that bring order and sense to all this?  There is my son’s prom and graduation to plan for, a new apartment to rent for my daughter, the dogs need their shots.  I don’t have time to stop and figure all this out.

I decide I can’t do this, I won’t, I’ll pack everything up and take it with me and sort through it before putting it away in the new place.  Wherever and whatever that might be.  I am brought up short by the fact that there is no new place, not yet, and whatever new place we find will surely be much, much smaller.  After all, there will only be two of us, most of the time.  I cannot contemplate that thought too closely.

Here are years of calendars, with the doctor and the dentist and the orthodontist appointments penned in — with reminders to myself about meetings, reunions, trips — with quickly jotted notes to remember the cute things they said — it’s only another box, it won’t take up that much room.  Baby blankets, stuffed animals, bedtime books.  It isn’t the item, it’s the memories it dredges up that I’m afraid I’ll lose if I discard these totems.

And if I do?  If I lose the memories?  Am I afraid I will lose myself with them, my family?  What is it I am clinging to?

What do we owe our memories?  How much of our souls do they contain?

II.

Our listing realtor tells me I should leave the house when prospective buyers come to look it over.  They will feel more comfortable, she explains, they will look in your closets, they will feel free to comment.  In all my moves, so many before the children were born, it has never occurred to me to peer into someone else’s private space, not while they’re still using it.  I feel invaded, forced to flee my home and give up my time for someone else.  I am made foreign in my own space.  I put away the pictures of my children.  I did not teach them to smile at strangers.

Another realtor tells me it is fine if I stay home, I can share some of the problems of the house.  Problems?  This has been my home for twenty years, this is where my children had their birthday parties, this is where they were raised, I want to scream.  I hurt mental missives at the realtor — the house has character!  It has quirks!  It has personality!  It has no problems!

I strip wallpaper.  I paint.  Neutrals, I am advised, stick to plain, unexciting colors.  Clean your counters, get rid of the clutter.  Wash out the bathroom stall, it has mineral deposits.  Oh, yes, and get a good rug deodorizer — the dogs, you know.

I am doing more for strangers than I ever did for us.

My home is beginning to retreat.  It is becoming a house again.  I try to be cool and distanced.  I try not to judge the people who come to look.  I have no control over their decisions.  I have no control over the sales process.  I have no control over its outcome.

I spend hours every day poring over electronic listings in the metropolitan Washington area.  Costs are four or five times what they are here, and the competition to buy is vicious.  I select some interesting-looking sites, and my husband visits them on evenings and weekends.  Nothing suits us, everything is too expensive.  We panic, retreat, worry.  The real estate market has spiraled out of reality, the prices are fantastic, but, we are assured, this is no bubble.  This is the way it is.  We imagine another year of a commuting marriage, and quickly reject that option.  We will have two children in college and we are already stretched beyond capacity.

People come and go.  Our realtor assures me the house will sell, but this only leaves me feeling more pressured, more stressed.  We need to locate something else soon.  My husband has spent every weekend riding the metro, walking the neighborhoods, trying to find something affordable.

I travel north to spend a few days with him in Virginia.  We visit houses well above our budget, hopeful that something might miraculously become possible.  They are matchboxes, crowded one next to another with hardly space to breathe, a strip of lawn for the dogs.  This is a market of escalator clauses — you put a bid on a house and the price climbs and climbs and you tell your realtor what your absolute limit is as you enter a bidding war.  What kind of way is this to look for a new home?

We know we will have to downsize.  We begin to consider a townhouse.  We cannot duplicate what we have here, our three bedrooms, our deck, our woods with their wildlife, quiet nights broken by the call and response of barred owls.

I fill the back of the SUV and bring another load of household goods and clothing to the Goodwill.  I stop replenishing the cupboards of food.  I don’t stock for this year’s hurricane season.  When I drive by the places that meant so much — the children’s schools, parks, playgrounds, the library with its Tuesday toddler time, the bagel place where my writer’s group meets — I wonder if it’s the last time, if I should bid farewell.  I am in a strange limbo; I have no idea how long we’ll be here, I have no idea when we’re leaving.

III.

One day, the house sells.  Our bid on an Alexandria townhouse is accepted.  The pace picks up as our time here draws to a close.  Months of preparing for this, but it still feels strange.  The remaining days become disjointed, dreamlike.  Soon, my Florida life will be only a memory.

Packers come to box up our lives.  All those books, all those papers, all those souvenirs.  We are told not to let them take our valuables — birth certificates, passports and other documents, jewelry, silver.  I stuff our photographs into containers and decide to take them myself.  They hold memories beyond value.  They are more precious to me than those documents, that silver.

Our memories are the part of life we get to keep and take with us.  They inform us, shape our characters. These pictures are a gateway to memory, one of its languages in translation, and I want them safe and close.    They are a fixative — of time, of place, of history.  One day, they will help me remember the stories of our lives.  I can’t face the thought of losing them.  Who would I be without them?

IV.

My friends plan farewell lunches, last get-togethers.  I tell them not to.  I do not like parting.  The world is full of too many goodbyes.  I tell them I’ll be back.  I tell them to plan a reunion party instead.

They are good friends.  They ignore me.  There is a lovely last non-farewell dinner.  My daughter comes, and brings her close friend.  It is our last night together in Florida.  My son and his girlfriend are there, and several people I have grown close to.  The party goes late into the night, with much wine and laughter.  Next morning, a surprise breakfast send-off.  Feted with song, surrounded by friends I love, I am captured crying on film.  We hug and weep and they trickle away, into a rainy morning.

The cars are loaded.  There is nothing left to do.  The papers have all been signed, the keys turned over.  We’ve said our goodbyes to this place and this time.  There is nothing left to do but leave.

We have one last and lingering moment, arms wrapped around our hosts, and then we buckle ourselves into our seats and drive away.  The rain pours down in thick, heavy sheets.  Canada geese crowd the grassy slope on the ramp that leads to I-10.  I try to find them in my rear-view mirror, but the rain has swallowed them up.  There is no looking back.  I fix my sight on the road ahead and drive.

Nina Sichel is co-editor of two books about cross-cutural, international childhoods, Unrooted Childhoods:  Memoirs of Growing Up Global (2004) and Writing Out of Limbo:  International Childhoods, Global Nomads and Third Culture Kids (2011).  They include her reflections on growing up American in Venezuela.  Her work has also appeared in The American Journal of Nursing, Among Worlds, International Educator, The Children’s Mental Health Network, and elsewhere.

She currently resides near Washington, D.C., where she is a freelance editor and writing coach.  Her memoir workshops are offered through the Northern Virginia Community College and at community art centers and other settings in Virginia and Maryland.

Photo credit: Mark Silva

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