The long goodbye Bashny.Net

...when you have a son, try to be careful. I'm afraid that you can't. But they are always different — you and I, you and he. You will not be able to govern.

The first person you entirely, and you will not be able to manage them.

M. Zhvanetsky

Own growing up is nothing compared to what you feel when 15-year-old son comes home with scratches down her back, and you realize this is sex, love, relationships and the other woman. And the cute ritual of the home — scratching spinose son, breaks off the dialogue:

— Mom, scratch the back...

That's who you it is scratched, the even cards.

...I say strange voice. I couldn't say. Such stupid, destructive, like jealousy of all mothers raising boys rose in me like the stock foam. Boiled and ran.

Now I understand what the whole trick with children: the body does not realize that they are growing up. Rejects the idea of growing up, almost like a thought of death: it is obvious, but is incompatible with me. Some scenes from their childhood stuck in my head and obstruct the reality, make it difficult to see that a big dude with hairy legs – the same son and he is not little anymore.





And what to do about it? Consider it an adult or be treated as little? Everything is changed...

When ACE was 4, I was following her to take home after two summer months "grandma". The train approached the station, I saw my Asya. She quickly ran along the platform to the unfamiliar dress. The dress untied the belt, I reach up under her feet, hurt.

She fought him, not slowing down and shouted "mother!" turning directly to the entire train. A voice a little frustrated. For her it was the train in which I was traveling alone, and she tried to grasp his attention and scream the whole scale. My heart jumped out the window long before the composition finally stopped. Jumped out to tie the belt.

Now when she paints eyelashes before a mirror, even though it is stage make-up – I am silent and think: how? already?

And when Gus was in the fifth grade we came to prove to be in ballet school. I had to change into shorts and a t-shirt with open back and wait at the door of the class. There was a lesson, sounded the piano, and I heard the strict voice of a teacher "the classics". Me door Gus categorically drove away and I listened.

Before leaving, I looked out from the corner and, of course, did not see anything special in a long corridor a small boy stands alone, looking straight ahead and worried. Is there one in white socks and waiting, and I can do nothing to help him. He rubbed his eyes with his fist, and I thought that his shaggy eyelashes now even more confused, and in this t-shirt it is cold. And presented the creeps.

Or early: the midwife said, "Look, what heroes gave birth!" And I felt too bogatyrka. He was really big, dinnerlady, black-haired, hairy fluff on the ears and shoulders. And once in these confused, mixed the cilia as a textbook of mathematics – figure about intersecting straight lines.

When we first unwrapped it at home, it saw the birthmark on the leg – in the form of a trace of goose legs. And was never happy with my appearance as it is – come to bed – smiling, legs are flailing, I go and see in the mirror, as the person just "goes off", skuchnee. Fit – again enthusiasm and the welcome of waving...

And now, after listening to me, he says: "And you're funny..." (...and I'll kill you last)

Made me laugh how my mother's friend, which smoothed the bangs six-foot "boy" who returned from the army and were saying: "my son!" Ugh, I thought, what kind of nurse? How can he stand it? And now I approve – well done, good son. Until I hug her and kiss behind his ear, he just stands and waits, when it will be possible to run. Sometimes I feel like he twitches a nodule on her cheek. Rather, he impatiently pulls. And says "well, p". And also the writes on instagram, if I post a picture of it. Well, maaaaaaaaa...

His childhood ended.

And recently, when we Asay rode the bus, at the bus stop became a woman with two children – a boy and a girl. Rather, for me it was a woman with two children. But Asya said, nicho is. I took a closer look and realized that the boy was already a teenager and he's cute.

And her childhood is over.

I still react to the booths with colored tights, consider the socks with young bees, but then realize that I have no one to buy them. I think we should go in "Detsky Mir" on Lubyanka, and then it turns out that this may be the only tour that is sold there too small.





And they are great. And we don't have time to do almost nothing that I planned, representing motherhood: walking in the fields, not weaving wreaths of dandelions, didn't bake cookies together, and have not read Winnie the Pooh aloud. Make dolls, long since handed out the cars. Children are not placed together at the small kitchen table pushing, shoving, and if you can take away their gadgets, indulge in memories: "Mom, do you remember in childhood you used to make us eat soup?"

And starting details, how they suffered, spit peas pepper... Why I sprinkled in the soup if the kids hated peppers, why am I even cooked soup? Or this recollection: "Oh, how you screamed! Yelled and went into the kitchen, and we are in the sitting room, are afraid to go out"... atas and shame.

In their memories the mother — household maniac. Now this has nothing to do. It ended too quickly.

Son

I've always wanted kids, envied even his pregnant cat. It seemed to me can not be anything as beautiful as pregnancy. And when it happened, I tried to do the right thing. To start his day with fiber, dairy finish...

And now I read that Coca-Cola dissolves the rust, and vividly imagine how it corrodes the walls of the stomach my son. The walls of the stomach, which I cared so much! Nightmarish picture. (To take away? Never give money? Tell us about the injury?)

And fresh air for which I fought? Walking, air purifiers, summer to the sea to breathe to the lungs gaining oxygen! What? Now he smokes? Oh yeah, he's an adult now. (Threaten? What? Scare cancer? Impotence? A heart attack? His heart attack?)

Yes, Yes, his dad really wanted to do everything right and by the way, did so. Fed, walked, bathed. We tried and knew that he's incredible luck and tremendous reward us for what we did well and loved each other. And when it was difficult (the first year after all it is hard) we said: "He was born just because we wanted to. If we hadn't, the guy wouldn't be a problem. But we met, he was born, and so now we shall not fail". It was wonderful, funny and very responsible.

And once, I remember, blunt at work after a heinous day, I am going to finally get upset and remember that Gus is sitting in his little chair in the kitchen, knitted vest and socks, and eat the highlight. And you know, that's all that matters. And working trouble against this background, the events immediately pale and faded out.

And now he says, "So cute when you're trying to fight!" Or, worse, sitting on the couch with a tablet and snarls.

Now it's just a grown man to whom you feel a great love, or rather unconscious of unhealthy adorationthat you necessarily have something messed up (and he will have something to tell my shrink about his childhood), in whose space you can't invade and who you never call when you miss in order not to spoil even more. He goes about his business and routes, he has a blonde on the phone screen, and before leaving on a three week expedition, he puts on a creepy camouflage suit, takes upon himself a 25-pound backpack and said, "I'll see myself out".

 



The art of communication: WHAT we say and HOW we understanddon't worry! YOUR train you will not go anywhere

Maybe it was necessary to catch up with him, shouting: "You forgot napkins!" Hug on the platform, to ask, to be careful, tried not to wet my feet, do not forget about a HEADDRESS? In fact, probably as long as he has me, and I remember what was that darling spot and the highlight, I need to be in the way, and say what I say to all mothers in the world.

And I again obeyed and went to the station. Then it turned out that I'm the only one. All the other boys watched. And so he went back, and I will never cease to regret not spending...posted

 

Author: Polina Sanayeva

 



Source: sopli-i-vopli.ru/deti/dolgoe-proshhanie