Our men through the eyes of a foreigner: “I want John, Jose, Carl, but not Ivan...”

The fact that our representatives of the fair sex for the bump is in high demand, we have already learned. But here's what foreign people think. women about Russian men? Ushanka, glass, balalaika? Our editorial board invites you to visually compare the behavior in the family life of our and foreign husbands.





"Site" She shares with you the story of a woman who, through her own experience, was able to appreciate all the charms of life with both ours and a foreigner. It's worth reading for everyone!

After my divorce from my husband, I swore to myself that I would never contact ours again in my life. I want John, Jose, Carl, but not Ivan. Not because all of the Ivans are bad, but because they've eaten. Spoiled. Disturbed... Expectations are sometimes the size of Hoverla, and opportunities are as tall as an anthill. And that's the trend.





Yes, I'm good to say - I'm speaking from America, where men walk with children, ride them on a swing and take them all day on weekends, letting their wife go for a manicure. They, like the wife, get up to the screaming child at night and change diapers.

They don't think it's shameful to give up a bar after work when family is waiting home. And they don't see it as a feat. It's okay! That's right! Called the strong sex. Be kind to be strong.! Your strength lies in understanding our weakness. Not using it.





I remember visiting a friend once. She was on maternity leave with a little daughter in her arms. A runaway, tired woman and her husband, sitting in stretched pants and playing at the computer. I sat down on the couch, a friend fussed with tea, giving me a few minutes of the child. She rushed through the small kitchen, collecting cups and saucers, while stirring the soup on the stove and feeding the cat.

The husband sitting at the game did not even move, although the child in my arms began to cry and arch. I, trying to calm him down, jumped around the room, sluggish and grimaceous, while his father, indifferent to this action, continued to play the shooters.

“Here’s a goat!” I thought, all wet from jumping with a screaming child. I wanted to. come upSo that he imprinted himself on his monitor with his insolent face... Thank goodness my husband is not my man, so you can’t beat him. I wanted to.





A friend put the tea on the table and took from my shaking hands a screaming daughter. I was relieved to spit on the chair, wiping my wet forehead and convulsively taking a sip of tea. My friend calmed the child and smiled at me tiredly. Only now did I notice small wrinkles on her young face and carelessly bundled hair.

Always happy and well-groomed, now she was like a driven horse, soaked and tired to death. "How are you?" she asked, without touching the tea. We haven’t seen each other for a long time, I flew in from America a few years later and there was a lot of news.





She got married, gave birth. My husband was a small manager and there was little money. She, sitting on maternity leave, tried to earn money transfers, sat at night and ran with the child to the doctors. A cold, a flu. The vaccines. Teeth. I sat and listened and my hair moved on my head.

And the husband? Does it help? I asked timidly, knowing the answer in advance. She sighed quietly and lowered her eyes. “Of course he watches her while I clean her up.” She's afraid of a vacuum cleaner. He's sitting in the other room with her.





I looked at the window. A quiet, slushy evening, muddy snow on the sidewalk, trampled by millions of feet of similarly unfortunate women pushing a stroller stuck in melting puddles. Dim lights and wet shoes. They carefully tuck warm blankets under sleeping children, slurping in wet shoes at home, hurrying to prepare dinner for the so-called “husbands”.

Pulling bags from the bazaar, pushing the stroller into the entrance without a ramp. And at home, tearing themselves apart, cook dinner, vacuum and dry wet shoes, not letting the child off his hands. And this is all in order to carry the title of “wife”. And no one will praise them for it. He won't hug, he won't pin his chest, he won't appreciate it. Because she-- "should". And he doesn't. He goes to work...





I didn't tell her that my husband, or any husband, usually helps. He doesn't wait for his wife to ask. And he doesn't do favors. And he takes the dishes and vacuum cleaner himself, coming from work and changing clothes. He takes the children to the pool in the evening to rest his wife. He loves and does not look with reproach. And that it's okay!

I was silent. I thanked God that I lived in a world where that was normal. Where Man is the head of the family.Carrying the lion's share of household chores without expecting praise. He's not just a physiological man. He is a man, a strong, understanding, full-fledged partner in the family routine. He goes to work, goes to get groceries and helps make dinner. He habitually washes dishes, and then, gathering the children in a huddle, plays computer games with them.





He's a father. caregiverThe wall. And I can wrap myself in a terry robe at this time and write another article. Because I'm human too, I have hobbies and a life apart from diapers. And no one asks me for cakes and mops because they respect and love me. He cares, and most importantly, he cares. And because he's a real man...

Yes, I was spoiled by America with its equality and freedom of thought. And yes, I love being a woman, not a home robot. And I like the fact that my sons will grow up partners to their wives, not users sitting in stretched sweatshirts and indifferently watching the wife running and falling from her feet.





“Hen heels,” say most men sitting with a glass of beer in a “bottling” whose wives are now drying leaky shoes and hastily peeling potatoes for dinner. And I believe that they are the herd of ungrateful “unbearables” sitting there. broken-backedThey are proud to be the strong half of humanity. Where is it?

“Woman, let’s eat,” I hear a voice out of nowhere. A sharp shout took me out of my thoughts. It's our player who woke up, got hungry, poor. The friend got up tired, silently poured soup and put it in front of her husband. Without saying thank you, he began to lap from the plate. “Give me bread!” he said, without moving. Husband? No, just (think of the word yourself)... I thought.





Girls, girls, women! Let's love ourselves.! Let’s learn how to distinguish “this” from “normal men”! There are still good husbands, caring and thinking. There are those who do not consider you servants.

You have one life. Love and respect the one who goes with you shoulder to shoulder, overcoming difficulties and misfortunes. Treat those who lead you and make you better, not ride on your broken neck. Be happy!

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