Why don't I tell mom about your problems

I don't tell my mom about my problems. Consult, listen, share their joy, and infinite trust. She is my closest, dearest person, and therefore the last one I will talk about some difficulties. If you just kiss — simply come to visit, drink tea with signature pies, listen to the voice, sit on the couch and the native will become easier. Bank it. Don't want to worried and upset. For many reasons. Tell you about one.






Mom had to work, not afraid of the word, Herculean efforts that my childhood was happy. It is not only in the era of shortages, when she (like many others) had to rush to the other end of the city, to stand in a line a mile long to buy my daughter a doll or boots. This, of course, is difficult, and we today do not fully understand. But I'm not about that.

It so happened that my family was faced with a war. Many years ago, in the Soviet Union, Angola, fought South Africa. I was very young, and my father — a young officer, and he was sent to serve just the same African hot spot.

The first year in Angola lived with him only a mother, then another two years brought me. I was 3-4 years old, and about war like this little girl didn't say anything, and dad just went "to work". But up to 14 years in front of my eyes often emerges a picture like I'm standing on the balcony, looking into the distance, where a line of trees (that is, some sparse African vegetation), and she heard a roar. Explosions. I am a long time could not understand how such visions, and thought I remember some kind of a dream.

Because in Angola we just lived, talked, went to movies, swam in the ocean. Yes, I was there only one doll was black and the stroller served as a box from-under bananas (Yes, and what else is in Africa?). Still preserved a photograph. But on this occasion I did not suffer. But it was a lot of fruit, and the parents close.

And only many years later, at the cottage, at the barbecue, dad (after a certain number of spirits), open up: "I Remember sitting in the trenches, crashing, shooting and think, and the people in the Union because of some stupid quarrel, quarrel, the relationship is found out... Fools!". So he first leaked.

A couple of years ago on TV showed the film "Angola. The war, which was not." I caught the last ten minutes after he called mom: "can you Imagine NTV film about Angola is coming! About our part! Where his father served, and the ensign that showed us there was, and then he took the prisoner. Do it now!". The film is really told about those events, about the war that was in Angola when there was the Pope. And in my mind suddenly somehow emerged again some memories-phrase-stories. And the picture turned out very weird. Surreal. If we were there and at the same time was not. For many years Angola was for me the country from which we brought scarce then carpets, dinner sets and Japanese technique. And the only place on earth (and parents traveled in his lifetime very much), where the climate was completely satisfied with the mom, a lover of heat and sun.

It was very strange to hear from parents that a month after we left the military unit (my father's term of service ended, he was transferred to another location), it literally wiped off the face of the earth. Bombed. And no one was left alive.

And this film... In which the same warrant officer, my father's co-worker, a friend, told me about the prisoner, where he spent a year. He and several of our military tied kept in some huts, and it was crawling with Scorpions and spiders.

There were personnel news — real tanks, gunfire, grenades.... Just could not believe that it is documentary footage. I was there at the same time. And perhaps among the military, caught on tape, was my dad.

I know details about the war, and generally begin to truly understand that we lived there in the unit, and my dad served there just now. Much, much later these events. But well and distinctly remember my black friend Antonio tore into adjacent field corn. Remember the rabbit who was given to me by the parents. I pulled him by the ears. Then he got entangled in the ropes on the balcony and died, and make me feel better, mom said he ran off into the woods, to his family.Not to upset...






There was another club in the military where periodically twisted movie. Took me with him, so as not to leave one at home. And there was his ritual before a session — I went over the rows, slightly sticking out his hands to the hem of the dress, and the hem was falling candies, sweets, cookies. Children in part. But at home, in the USSR, they were almost every. The military, she missed her children and "spoiled" me as he could, for everyone. Now I know that many of those officers never saw more of their children.

My friend Antonio, I remember it very well. Typical of such African black boy. He was 11 years old. He was an orphan, spent the night at some of his distant cousin, and the days spent in our unit. Was fluent in Russian. Our women fed him and otherwise took care of. We have, for example, he regularly had lunch. And every time he came home, bringing a bouquet of roses, handed to mom and said, "It's Olga!".

And under the parents ' bed all the time was a suitcase with dry rations and warm clothing. So, if you suddenly begin to bomb, mom could grab my suitcase and run away. With these reserves we could spend some time. I also learned recently. But remember all the time rabbit, candy hem, roses and corn.

Now I know that the parents just took care of me without telling the truth. Imagine how they were afraid and worried for my brother and me. Although really to present it I did not so long ago. It was enough to survive one of SARS's own child to understand the feelings of the mother. When the sound of a cough can break your heart, and you're ready to stay up all night, but at least a week, temperaturesare nursing baby. To not care about fatigue, not feeling — if only he was at least a little easier. And you can move mountains, so his childhood had been happy, despite all the bad weather.Mine was just this — thanks to the parents.

And now I want to pay them the same. Maybe I'm wrong, but they only see my success, new dresses, the achievements of grandchildren, vacation photos.

And have morals of the story there.Just — take care of parents. Including the unnecessary emotions for us. published

 

Author: Olga Zinenko

P. S. And remember, just changing your mind — together we change the world! ©

Source: //www.matrony.ru/pochemu-ya-ne-rasskazyivayu-mame-o-svoih-problemah/

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