母亲的礼物
文 苏珊娜·洽赞 译 赵朝永
我在一个小镇长大，从家里到镇上的小学步行只需十分钟。在那个还不算遥远的年代，孩子们可以回家吃午饭，看到等待他们的母亲。
这对今天的孩子来说无疑是一种奢望，而当时的我却不这么认为。我觉得母亲就应该给孩子做三明治，欣赏手指画，监督他们写作业，这都是理所当然的。在我出生前，母亲有自己的事业，以后也准备重新回到职场。我从未想过就是这个上进又聪慧的女人，在我读小学期间几乎每顿午饭的分分秒秒都陪在我身边，多少年从未间断过，这些我也都视为天经地义。
我只知道，中午下课铃一响，就上气不接下气地拼命往家跑。母亲则会站在门前台阶的最高处，冲我微笑，那神情分明在说---我是她心里唯一重要的东西。为此，我永远心怀感激。
如今，有些声音，如烧开的茶壶发出的尖叫声，地下室洗衣机的隆隆声，还有小狗蹦蹦跳跳冲下台阶迎接我时，脖子上牌照的叮当声，都能一一勾起我对往事的回忆。回首我们在一起的时光，如今生活中的那些随性的日程安排都显得黯然失色了。
上三年级时的一次午餐将会永远保存在我的记忆中。我被选中在学校的戏剧演出中扮演公主，一连几周的时间，母亲不辞辛劳，陪我一起串台词。然而不管在家背的多么滚瓜烂熟，一踏上舞台，那些台词就从会我脑子里消失地无影无踪。
终于，老师把我叫到一边。她解释说，已经为这幕剧写了一个旁白，要求我更换角色。她的话说的那么温和，却依然刺痛了我，特别是看到我的角色给了另外一个女孩子的时候。
回家吃午饭时，我并未将事情的原委告诉母亲。但她依然感觉到了我的不安，没像往常那样建议我们开始练习台词，而是问我是否想去院子里走走。
那是个明媚的春日，棚架上的玫瑰藤已开始蒙上浓浓绿意。擎天的榆树下，一簇簇嫩黄的蒲公英刚从草坪间崭露头角，像是画师用点点金色装点了我们眼前的景致。
我看到母亲在一簇蒲公英旁漫不经心地蹲下来。“我得把这些杂草都除掉，”她说着，猛地一下把一束盛开的蒲公英连根拔起。“从现在起，我们的园子里只要玫瑰了。”
“可我喜欢蒲公英啊。”我抗议。“所有的花儿都很漂亮——就连蒲公英也不例外。”
母亲看着我，一脸地严肃。“是啊，每种花儿都以自己独有的方式给人带来欢乐，不是吗？”她若有所思地问道。我点了点头，很欣慰说服了她。“人又何尝不是如此，”她接着说。“不是每个人都适合演公主，但也不必为此感到懊悔。
得知母亲已经猜到我的痛楚，我顿感释然，于是痛哭起来，向她讲述了事情的缘由。母亲专注的听着，脸上露出的微笑让我倍感欣慰。
养殖鸵鸟
“你会成为一位出色的旁白的，”母亲说，有提醒我平时多么喜欢读故事给她听。“不管从什么角度讲，旁白的角色都不比公主逊色。”
接下来的几个礼拜，在母亲不断的鼓励下，我逐渐在角色中找到了自信。午餐时间也全部花在反复诵读台词和谈论我的着装上了。
演出那天晚上，我在后台还是怯场了。演出开始前几分钟，老师走了过来。“你母亲让我把这个交给你，”她说完，递给我一株蒲公英。叶子已经有些打卷了，像是疲倦了一样耷拉着脑袋。看着手中的蒲公英，知道母亲就在外面，再想想午饭时的谈话，我顿时信心百倍。cad作业
演出结束后，我把塞在戏服围裙里的那束花带回了家。母亲把它平放在两片纸巾间，夹在
了一本词典里。她边夹边笑，说或许也只有我们才会把这么难看的花夹起来吧。钱柜ktv团购
沐浴在中午温柔的阳光里与母亲共进午餐的场景时常浮现在我的脑海中。那一顿顿午餐像是童年记忆里的一个个小逗号，它们教会我一个道理：生活的滋味，在于和我们所爱的人一起不经意间共度的日常生活、分享的点点滴滴的快乐，而非按照预先设定的刻度向前机械延伸。在享用母亲做的花生酱夹心三明治和巧克力薄脆饼干时，我懂得了：爱的首要意义，应是点点滴滴都能相依相伴。
几个月前，母亲过来看我。我休息一天请她吃午饭。餐馆里熙熙攘攘全是上班族，边谈工作边不停的瞄一眼手表，俨然一派繁忙的午间工作场景。这中间就坐着我的母亲，已经退休的母亲，还有我。从母亲的表情可以看出，她打心眼里喜欢上班族快节奏的生活。
“妈，我小时候你呆在家带我肯定无聊死了吧，”我说。
“无聊？家务的确无聊。可带你一点都不无聊。”
她的话我不信，于是追问：“带孩子肯定没有干事业那么有激情。”
“干事业的确很有激情，”她说。“也很高兴我有过这样一份事业。但事业就像是一个敞口的气球，只有不停的打气才不会瘪掉。孩子是一粒种子。你为它浇水，精心呵护它，它就会自己长成一株美丽的花儿呀。”
那一刻，望着母亲，蓦然感到我们仿佛又坐在了她厨房的餐桌旁。也终于明白，我为何要把那株枯黄的蒲公英用两片皱皱巴巴的纸巾压平，珍藏在家里那本字典中了。
栗子去皮My Mother’s Gift中国电动车品牌
Suzanne Chazin
I grew up in a small town where the elementary school was a ten-minute walk from my hou and in an age, not so long ago, when children could go home for lunch and find their mothers waiting.
At the time, I did not consider this a luxury, although today it certainly would be. I took it for granted that mothers were the sandwich-makers, the finger-painting appreciators and the homework monitors. I never questioned that this ambitious, intelligent woman, who ha
什么泡脚好d had a career before I was born and would eventually return to a career, would spend almost every lunch hour throughout my elementary school years just with me.
I only knew that when the noon bell rang, I would race breathlessly home. My mother would be standing at the top of the stairs, smiling down at me with a look that suggested I was the only important thing she had on her mind. For this, I am forever grateful.
Some sounds bring it all back: the high-pitched squeal of my mother’s teakettle, the rumble of the washing machine in the bament and the jangle of my dog’s licen tags as she bounded down the stairs to greet me. Our time together emed devoid of the gerrymandered schedules that now pervade my life.
One lunchtime when I was in the third grade will stay with me always. I had been picked to be the princess in the school play, and for weeks my mother had painstakingly reheard my lines with me. But no matter how easily I delivered them at home, as soon as I stepped onstage, every word disappeared from my head.
Finally, my teacher took me aside. She explained that she had written a narrator’s part to the play, and asked me to switch roles. Her word, kindly delivered, still stung, especially when I saw my part go to another girl.
I didn’t tell my mother what had happened when I went home for lunch that day. But she nd my unea, and instead of suggesting we practice my lines, she asked if I wanted to walk in the yard.
窗帘图片大全
It was a lovely spring day and the ro vine on the trellis was turning green. Under the huge elm trees, we could e yellow dandelions popping through the grass in bunches, as if a painter had touched our landscape with dabs of gold. I watched my mother casually bend down by one of the clumps. “I think I’m going to dig up all the weeds,” she said, yanking a blossom up by its roots. “From now on, we’ll have only ros in this garden.”
