" What does ' mother ' mean ?

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For my 15 years old, I was such a naughty child that I was angry, arguing with my mother that I was sad and it seemed that I did not know anything about my mother's definition until I read the lines. Read , feel and answer the last questions with all your heart>>>
"What is your mother?" - If anyone asks me this I would be very confused. In the dictionary of language, one just defines this: "Mother is the woman who gave birth to you." Is that all? I can not agree with this definition.
No, you can not just be like that! Mother is something great, great; The meaning of mother surpasses every aspect of language, beyond the limits of space and time. So, what is your mother?
Mother is a sweet pick for growing up. Mother is the gentle pat, warm. Mother is the sound of a nanny who sleeps on a hot summer afternoon. Mother is the cradle, is the hammock for me. Mother is the first shelter for the endless journey of man.
Mom is the hand that helped us take the first step. Mother is a soft voice, helping us babble the early sounds. Mother is a warm hand, patiently set us to write the first letter. She is the divine being who transforms us from an immovable object into a soulful, loving and loving creature.
Mom is the shake on my shoulder every morning, wake up from the dreams dreaming. Mother is boiling hot, sweet egg is fragrant, is a sweet cup. Mother is the headgear, the flip flops. Mother is the shirt, is the pants, the broken pair, is the hand lead us to school. Mother is the back of our legs from fatigue. Mother is the umbrella for sunbathing, avoid rain. Mom stretched her arms to shield us from the grim assaults of the weather, of time, of circumstances and of the needs of the body.
Mom is also happy, happy eyes when we are excited. Mother is anxious face when we are hot, when the wind left, turn to heaven. Mother is the advice when I make mistakes. Mother is the sadness when we are damaged. I am the enemy of lies, of jealousy, of little ones - because you are generous, honest and loving.

Mother is the familiar sound of the alley. Mother is a wide hat to challenge rain and sunshine. Mum is the skinny hands of the same patient. Mother is hair frosted, frosted silver, worry silver; Her legs are unmanageably hard, scrambling all the way to bring back the clothes, rice bowl. The crying mother's voice rang in the middle of the noonday or evening silence.
Mummy hands are crushed because of work plowing. My mother is a pair of pearl feet in the mud, throug the rice slug into the rice field. Mother is a black cloth wet black salty, morning, afternoon, creek, river, shrimp, fish. Mother is the cradle of the baskets, whispering at the same time as the dog barking the first day, and the early bird sound when the sun is not yet growing.
Mother in the east, as the western bird bends down, pecking on his chest for the blood of oysters to flow into his mouth in the midst of hunger. And then I was the shadow of the people standing at the door waiting for me in the afternoons. My mother is a blue smoke on the roof. Mother is the happy sound of chopsticks. Mother is a crispy dinner at home. Mother is the smell of hot soup. Mother is the oil lamp, deep bass, only hear the concert insects and sometimes some footsteps rushed in the alley.
Mother is peace. Mother is the elf. Mother is like a cloud. Mother smooth as the wind over the rice head; but at night she sat up, her eyes fluttering into the night when she heard the dog barking at the door; creeping bullets on the barrel, or banging on the door ... Mother panic, hugging her tightly, afraid to burst into tears, then urged three times to escape behind; and my mother cried out, as the guns and fists dropped into my body. Since then, the day has never come back, the night is still constant .... Since then, the tears and silent prayer every night of her mother never stopped.
What is your mother? Have you ever seen your mother in your eyes and your smile? When do you see your mother in every job you do? Have you ever seen your mother appear on every letter you write? And when do you see your mother in every breath, every thought, every word, every drop of blood circulating in your veins?
Then many explanations, so many questions set out to find that again have not answered anything; I do not define what mother is! All languages are just a few doodles. Only a few drawings how can express all the magical look of immense universe about mother? Again, our mother is not an object of science to be seen with a microscope. My mother, she is in me and she is in you. And so the question, "What is a mother?" Must be answered by yourself and by myself - answer each one alone. So, what is your mother?