Baby Hand Quotes Page 2

I had a terrible dream when I was pregnant;

I dreamt the baby had a ventriloquial mouth, but there was no hand hole; I had to flick the mouth down to get words out.

Worry is anti-trust. If you're worried, you don't trust something: your kids, their friends, strangers, the church, even God. Can He take care of your children? Certainly. Jesus says, 'I tell you, stop being anxious and worried about your life.' Pretty blunt. Stop it! Easier said than done, huh? Worry tests your trust, so hand your children to God and let Him babysit your babies when you're not around. He's pretty good at it!

I mean, if someone asked for my birth certificate, I'd get my baby book and hand it out and say 'Here it is.'

If a baby really has no awareness of himself and is totally thing-directed and at the same time all his states of mind are projected onto things, our second paradox makes sense: on the one hand, thought in babies can be viewed as pure accommodation or exploratory movements, but on the other this very same thought is only one, long, completely autistic waking dream.

But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings should not play at.

Nations would do well To extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, Because men suffer it, their toy the world.

One can't help thinking, Daddy, what a colourless life a man is forced to lead, when one reflects that chiffon and Venetian point and hand embroidery and Irish crochet are to him mere empty words. Whereas a woman- whether she is interested in babies or microbes or husbands or poetry or servants or parallelograms or gardens or Plato or bridge- is fundamentally and always interested in clothes.

The senator got so tired on the campaign trail that he started kissing hands and shaking babies.

All through the night I'll be standing over you All through the night I'll be watching over you And through the bad dreams I'll be right there, Baby holding your hand, Telling you everything is all right. And when you cry I'll be right there Telling you were never Anything less than beautiful. So don't worry I'm your Angel standing by.

With a new familiarity and a flesh-creeping homeliness entirely of this unreal, materialistic world, where all sentiment is coarsely manufactured and advertised in colossal sickly captions, disguised for the sweet tooth of a monstrous baby called the Public, the family as it is, broken up on all hands by the agency of feminist and economic propaganda, reconstitutes itself in the image of the state.

The boy and girl going hand in hand through a meadow;

the mother washing her baby; the sweet simple things in life. We have almost lost track of them. On the one side, we over-intellectualize everything; on the other hand, we are over-mechanized. We can understand the danger of the atomic bomb, but the danger of our misunderstanding the meaning of life is much more serious.

The sweetest flowers in all the world- A baby's hands.

I see you young and soft oh little baby Little feet, little hands, little baby One year of crying and the words creep up inside Creep into your mind So much to say

Imagine you're drowning, and someone hands you a baby.

Why don't you try to do without him, why don't you try to live alone? Do you really need his hands for your passion? Do you really need his heart for your throne? Do you need his labor for your baby? Do you need his beast for the bone? Do you need to hold a leash to be a lady? I know that you can make it, you can make it on your own.

If left alone in labor, the body of a woman produces most easily the baby that is not interfered with by its mother's mind or the assistant's hand. If left alone, just courage and patience are required.

I know he's coming by this sign, That baby's almost wild;

See how he laughs and crows and starts — Heaven, bless the merry child! He's father's self in face and limb, And father's heart is strong in him. Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands, For father on the threshold stands.

Well you wave your hand and they scatter like crows They have nothing that will ever capture your heart They're just thorns without the rose Be careful of them in the dark Oh, if I was the one you chose to be your only one Oh baby can't you hear me now, can't you hear me now Will I see you tonight on a downtown train Every night it's just the same, you leave me lonely now

Men are built, not born.... Give me the baby, and I'll make it climb and use its hands in constructing buildings of stone or wood.... I'll make it a thief, a gunman or a dope fiend. The possibilities of shaping in any direction are almost endless.

She was the murderous mother who cut us to the bone but left us alive, left us naked and bewildered as wrinkled newborn babies, as blind puppies, as sun-starved newly hatched baby snakes. She left us a dark Gulf and salt-burned land. She left us to learn to crawl. She left us to salvage. Katrina is the mother we will remember until the next mother with large, merciless hands, committed to blood, comes.

Baby wipes are great for everything! For wiping babies' butts, as an eye-makeup remover, to wipe the counter, to clean my hands at the airport, just everything.

We must treat ideas somewhat as though they were baby fish.

Throw thousands out into the waters. Only a handful will survive but that is plenty.

Men hand out cigars. Women `hand out' babies. And thus the world, for thousands of years, has gone round.

I respect that you want to protect your niece.

You know, I didn't want my daughter to become a boxer. Neither did Mohammad. But Joe Frazier, on the other hand, he had his baby girl boxing in the crib.

When my first daughter was born, my husband held her in his hands and said, 'My God, she's so beautiful.' I unwrapped the baby from her blankets. She was average size, with long thin fingers and a random assortment of toes. Her eyes were close set, and she had her father's hooked nose. It looked better on him.

Having taken on the care of foster children, a mother forced her own daughter to beat them. According to her later account: Mom puts the fly swatter in my hand and shows me how to do it: grab their wrists, and whack the plastic handle over their pink baby palms. She stands in the doorway of their room until I can crack hard enough to make them scream.

If I raised my hand to wipe the hair out of my children's eyes, they'd flinch and call their attorney.

Old photograph: amid the set poses of her family, a young girl smiles and raises her hand a little.

The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky Are also on the faces of people goin' by I see friends shaking hands saying, "How do you do" They're really saying "I love you." I hear babies cry, I watch then grow They'll learn much more than I'll ever know; And I think to myself, What a wonderful world; Yes, I think to myself, What a wonderful world. Oh yeah!

This is Shaun Mason activating security protocol Campbell.

The bridge is out, the trees are coming, and I’m pretty sure my hand is evil. Now gimme some sugar, baby.

Whoa," Brit breathed, handing my drink back to me.

"That was..." "Really hot," Jacob finished. "I thought you two were going to rip off each other's clothes and start making babies right here on the dirty, beer covered floor. Like I was going to have to start charging admission for what was about to go down.

You just came wild and sexy all over my hand and even left some claw marks on my back to prove it. Don’t go getting shy on me now. ‘Cause baby, before the night is over you will be naked in my bed.

No one but me ever put a hand on me to feel that baby.

No one wanted to put his ear against it and listen...You shouldn't have a baby if there's no one who wants to feel it kick or listen to it move.

Her tiny hand gripped mine with a surprising warmth, and in a shocking wash of emotion, I felt everything I knew shift. The scent of cinnamon and baby powder hit me, and as my eyes widened, my heart melted, making room for her.

And I wish that I was made of stone So that I would not have to see A beauty impossible to define A beauty impossible to believe A beauty impossible to endure The blood imparted in little sips The smell of you still on my hands As I bring the cup up to my lips No God up in the sky No devil beneath the sea Could do the job that you did, baby Of bringing me to my knees

He puts the chain with the locket around my neck, then rests his hand over the spot where our baby would be. “You’re going to make a great mother, you know,” he says. He kisses me one last time and goes back to Finnick.