Rus Articles Journal

Mother`s stories

These short stories were sent us by the Muscovite Yana Gretsova. Their emergence was preceded by the birth at Yana of the son Egor and some difficulties connected with it. Here what she writes.

“The first months me it was necessary to

hardly: infinite series of hygienic procedures, feedings, disguise, plus constant sleep debt. All this developed in feeling of some mad roundabout when there is only one a wish - to stop rotation, and it gains everything and gains steam...


, the only thing on what I focused a look from time to time, besides the child are an Our Kid magazine. Here I not only scooped confidence in the treatment of the kid, verifying the actions with councils of professionals and experience of other mothers. The main thing - me covered feeling of a unification with hundreds of thousands of women, as well as I, the babies pressing to heart, and it gave me force.

Today to Egorka it is already more than half a year of

, and my life is painted by the lightest paints, but so was not always. Therefore I want to share the way of overcoming of a notorious postnatal depression.

I Remember

, I paid attention that when I tell somebody about the little son - quite amusing and cheerful picture turns out. But as soon as I remain alone with household chores - the high spirits disappear, and I plunge into despondency again.

Trying to understand this discrepancy, I began to watch what happens to us: houses, on a visit, on walk. Then these pass - incidents began to develop in stories, and I saw the life as if from outside. To what remarkable it me seemed! I understood that I was never so prodigal before in caress, is so tolerant in relation to relatives, is so frank with friends, and, of course, never before I felt so necessary.

From former melancholy did not remain also a trace. I near at hand always had an infallible remedy - my diary. And now, re-reading the plain stories, I mentally come back at that time, and... I begin to envy myself“.

the Lie detector

So I for fun called

the breast for the fact that it caught and stopped the slightest attempts to outwit the chief owner - my newborn little son.

Somehow time I swing it on hands, I keep saying: “Sleep, my boy, sleep, my sweet - mummy with you, mother near“. And itself I think meanwhile:“ Now fall asleep, a pig. In kitchen my long-awaited porridge cools down, and you all sulk“.

I right there as if having convicted me of insincerity, in a breast is flowed by milk and is so sick - though shout. And to what it is offensive: you feel as a fox in the famous fairy tale when to it the own tail prevented to run away from dogs. But there is nothing to do - you fight back hungry tears, you press the complaining peanut more strong, and suddenly covers you with a hot wave: here it is happiness!


Probably, all mothers allow thought that their child also is the genius, especially if this child from time to time - the firstborn. And I, looking in clever eyes of the kid, did not doubt his outstanding abilities at all. And as soon as to the Hillock month was executed, began to crool with it in every possible way, trying to start conversation. However in reply I steadily received only a vseponimayushchy silent smile. And somehow time, having stopped the next unsuccessful trying it get to talking, I unexpectedly started singing:
- Mother, mother what we will do?.
- Gu, - quietly sounded in reply. In utter disbelief, I continued:
- Mother, mother how we will live?
- Gu - at - at, - the little man lingeringly tightened.
- Ah you my sweet chatlanin, - delighted kissed I the little son. - Means, “Kean - a dza - a dza“ and your favourite movie! Not without reason I tens of times reconsidered it, being shaken from laughter with a huge pregnant stomach. However, at them on the planet are accepted the whole two words:“ Ku“ and “Kyu“, well to us with you and one is enough, the main thing - to begin!

I it is valid, already in couple of days in a lexicon of my peanut were both “Aga“, and “Ku“, and “Mga“, and “Bu“... Well unless not a miracle? How after that to us, mothers not to consider the crumbs as future child prodigies? With them, every day there is an opening, it is necessary only to manage to pick up the necessary key. And such keys the big set, but only three of them possess really magic power - it is love, patience and caress.

Thick and thin

Egorka was born

quite large boy, than inexpressibly pleased grandmothers with grandfathers: “Athlete! Will be stronger“. We were discharged from maternity hospital with an increase in weight - and again a pleasure storm: “All newborns grow thin, and ours - fie - fie, not to maleficiate - recovered“. But when by two months the kid began to look as four-months, delights were succeeded by disturbing councils:“ Reduce feeding time “, “ increase breaks between food “, “ do not feed at night“. However all my attempts “to brake“ the little son came to an end with total surrender. And splashes the flying tears steadily won against heart-rending shout in comparison with frightening, but still far image of a malchish - the bad boy, chubby fingers seized a jar of jam.

I somehow time, in one of days of this difficult period our daily walk in the wood coincided with carrying out a physical education class in the fresh air. I slowly rolled a carriage when by us the noisy sniffing crowd of school students ran. Ahead - several akselerat, growth about an average sosenka, behind them a flock of ordinary boys, then couple of blockheads shirking occupations and, at last, the little out of breath fatty.

Being confused own hoot and obviously without maintaining even such lazy speed, it as if for fun was enough for a sleeve of one of boys, trying to brake it. But that not for long suffered the similar neighbourhood - shook from himself the grown weak friend and directed together with all forward. Having run some more meters, poor pukhlik did not sustain and dropped into a walk.


Here at me squeezed heart: with pity to the overfed child, for fear for own child who is looking out from - for hillocks of cheeks. I personally imagined the bitter future of the son - the shapeless, pathetic, left by all creation.“ Well, no. From now on we go on a diet“, - I resolved and began to consider the plan of the forthcoming fight.

From heavy reflections me was distracted by footfall of legs of the children running back. Here - the same leaders, here - a little substretched main group, and even my fatty not the latest. But who it goes, having bent, holding itself for a side? And as I did not notice it earlier though no wonder - and sickly this little man looks so pathetic. What sickly look, really I want that my son grew up same? The decision came by itself. I abruptly developed a carriage and bustled home:“ It is time to eat, my boy“.

Next time

Two boys of years of seven - eight convulsively smoke

not far from the road. Dragging on cigarettes, they alternately take out them from a mouth and watch how many still remained. It is obvious that they want somewhat quicker will finish with this unpleasant, but already usual thing. I with a carriage pass by and suddenly I try to tell:“ Boys, go here. I to you money of ladies for ice cream, only, please, throw this rubbish“.

Here I overtook them and... without stopping I go further, and words as if get stuck in a throat. Why? I am covered by shame - I began to doubt whether I have a trifle, differently it is necessary to give the whole fifty-kopeck piece, and even one hundred. I stop and the stiffened hands I climb in a purse, out of the corner of the eye observing as the children disturbed by my actions leave deep into the woods.

needs to shout them following, to develop a carriage, to catch up - I mentally touch obviously lifeless decisions. Here they - two tens as if laugh it is necessary me. I nervously push them back in a purse and I look back. Children already almost disappeared, even a moment - and two small figures are dissolved in evening twilight.

All remained way I torment myself with an unfulfilled picture of amicable purchase of ice cream. Trying to disperse sad thoughts, I begin to roll a carriage quicker and quicker, and suddenly I try to catch on myself a stare of the of the baby.

Then I stop and, having bent to the face so that to hear its breath, I whisper: “I promise, the sonny, next time - I will not be afraid. Next time“.

Article from June issue of the magazine.