Real Mothers don't eat quiche; they don't have time to make it.
Real Mothers know that their kitchen utensils are probably in the sandbox.
Real Mothers often have sticky floors, filthy ovens and happy kids.
Real Mothers know that dried Playdough doesn't come out of shag carpets.
Real Mothers don't want to know what the vacuum just sucked up.
Real Mothers sometimes ask, "Why me?" and get their answer when a little voice says, "Because I love you best."
Real Mothers know that a child's growth is not measured by height or years or grade. It is marked by the progression of Mama to Mommy to Mom.
While sitting on the train one day, the man next to me started screaming, "Call me a doctor! Call me a doctor!"
Following a heavy-metal rock concert, one punk rocker stopped at the front desk of the hotel and asked if she had any messages. The desk clerk handed her an unsigned note, and she asked for a description of the person who had left it.