Happiness to be mother of
About happiness of motherhood all mummies on light chirp. Or almost everything. I was always indifferent to children, they to me in principle were uninteresting. And sugary dialogues of mummies, type full of puppyish pleasure: “Oh, and at us zubik appeared! Oh, and we tried a squash!“, bored on me mortal at all. Sometimes I was even sorry that I am a woman, the man will never be reproached that he degraded because that he gave birth to the child.
On my question in what happiness of motherhood, skilled mothers could not answer nothing intelligible. One uttered only common truths about a reproduction, about pleasure of care and of a glass of water in old age. Others, mysteriously smiling, answered: “You will give rise - you will understand!“ .here I gave rise to
I. It was brought to me for the second day, and I looked forward that now I will touch this secret. In white state sheets with the gray blurred stamps with pleasure slept gently - the pink angel. Why I thought that all newborns red, wrinkled and shouting? The drop fell to a chubby cheek - the mother`s tear brought an easy alarm in serene existence of the baby. He schuffled and slightly opened eyes, having shown me gray, colors of wet asphalt, a raduzhka. His look was stuck into space as a blind kutenok in a mother`s paunch. I was overflowed by tenderness to this fragile being.Alas, to us long separation was coming
. In an hour my part was taken away in huge combine on rescue and nursing - in children`s hospital.
our Next meeting took place a week when I was discharged from maternity hospital later. Hobbling on unbending extremities along a long hospital corridor (Cesarean section gave complication on legs), I entered after the husband the box where in transparent couveuses newborn babies who were not fated to recover without the assistance of doctors lay. The husband picked up the son on hands, habitual gesture pressed it to a breast and dashingly pushed into a doll mouth the small bottle prepared by the nurse with mix.“ On its place there had to be I, my breast is more right“, - with grief I thought, looking at a glass too tight and short small bottle with white liquid. I admit, I tested a jealousy prick - for a week of the father and son the thin, but notable thread of mutual understanding connected. Even more sharply I felt it when ineptly and shy took this lump in hand, pressed it to myself, and - oh, horror! - he loudly protesting started shouting. I became puzzled, and began to roar. So we also cried, two closest persons, finding through tears love to each other. It was the beginning of a way.
my one-year-old kid lies under a dropper. Legs are hardly tied by a sheet. Handles are swaddled that did not pull out a needle. On a face, red from shout, huge tears flow. In eyes despair, offense and fear. They beg, insist, shout: “Mother, take away me from here!!!“ . And so there is a wish to pick up it on hands, to exempt from hated tubes, to press to a breast and to carry away on the world`s end where there are no people in white dressing gowns, in white chambers, in white corridors... But a drop behind a drop the small dehydrated wreaths are filled with saving liquid. His tears flow, my tears flow, medicine on transparent tubes flows. Minutes and hours pass. Now we single whole, uniform organism. His pain squeezes to me heart, drives on veins blood, and on a body goosebumps. It is love through compassion. It is a motherhood instinct: to protect, hide from all and to bring up.
Ya thought that at that moment to me and the truth of maternal love opened, but everything was still ahead.
to my son two years. I any more not a source of raw materials for it, and it am not my appendage. We are two independent persons. For us there came the time of opening. It opens the world, and I open the forgotten world of the childhood.
He for the first time tastes ice cream and squints from pleasure, and I begin to feel on lips that taste of my first ice cream - unforgettable taste of the childhood. Unforgettable adult feeling.
It for the first time sits down on a smooth blue horse with a high iron saddle, and the roundabout slowly begins the course. Multi-colored bulbs blink, children mutter and laugh. I peer into a confused face of the son. At first in his eyes full confusion, replaces it then curiosity, and after at all delight! The pseudo-horse carries away mine the baby to the magic world of the childhood, at me the head goes around, and suddenly from where - that from subconsciousness emerges the forgotten picture long ago. We with the father on roundabouts. Machines, samoletik, horses, camels - everything sparkles, moves, blinks. I go on a horse, holding an artificial nape. My mustang throws me on hummocks, and then lowers in poles. I am overflowed by emotions, I as the tense string, still slightly - slightly also will burst with happiness. I so love the father!
Ya so I love the son! He goes down from a horse. I see - it is proud, it bridled a horse. It at top of pleasure and in search of new fulfillments. Now I will put him aboard the plane. Yes, aboard the plane, then, in my childhood it was not reached by the course. Some gloomy type pulled out a purse at the father, and our flight was interrupted in the zenith of happiness.
In the evenings the son long sits at a window and waits when in a steam of cars the bus appears. Oh, this big handsome with aunts and uncles at it in special honor. His four-wheel favourite bears the name “Abu“. Sometimes he nestles a nose on glass and whispers: “Bee - bi, where Abu?“ And I am overflowed by inexplicable feeling of happiness. Before eyes the same rainy dark evening, however, still Leningrad. On Maurice Thorez Avenue “Zhiguli“, “Muscovites“ and “Volga“ moves. The wet road reflects light of headlights and lamps. I am three years old, I wait for the bus, and I whisper to the passing cars the spell: “The car - the car, call avtobusik!“... I approach a synula and I kiss it on the top. As everything is sweet - children smell! I try it to embrace. “Leave, ma - and - ma!“ - my kid ershitsya and, without tearing off a look from a window, takes away my hand. I understand it, and quietly I leave, he waits for the bus...I watch
Ya the child, and I catch myself that I know this expression of eyes, this tone, gesture, this smile: Also I know what will be then. It appears, I very much about it know, it is I.with
I am not tormented any more by a question what is maternal love. Everyone feels it in own way. When I became a mother, in parallel with my main life, two more began to flow. Life of my child. And life of my childhood. Thanks to the kid, I endure the forgotten feelings and I rediscover the childhood, involuntarily remembering that several decades became dusty on the most secret shelves of my memory.
to be mother is a godsend, it is an opportunity to live the life again, from scratch, together with the child. And when I will become a grandmother, I am sure, what will become even happier, two more will join my life: life of the grandson and life of my youth.
the Decision to share with 7ey the experiences came spontaneously. In the Family Relations conference one girl shared the fears that, having given birth to the child, will not love him, will suffer from his shout, to test fastidiousness at the sight of dirty pampers, will not be able to get up early and so on. It was clear that she wants the child, but at the same time it is terrible to imagine how it will be. I passed through the same feelings and I hope that my story will help someone to dispel doubts, and to open for someone for itself something new, to see my look for luck of motherhood. Thanks!