Пока ребёнок маленький, мечтаешь о том, чтобы он...

While the child is small, you dream that he will grow up sooner. Fool because. You don’t guess that compared to adult problems, children's problems are so, nonsense. Did you sleep badly for the first four years of your life? But now you can't get it! Every time, while dancing with tambourines, did you have to push the porridge into your mouth, spit half out, smear half of it on your own? But at puberty he sweeps away the entire contents of the refrigerator in one go. You had to take him through half the city to a speech therapist, and in the evening, cursing everything in the world, glue Zaitsev's cubes? It’s easier than winding circles on the ceilings while he takes the exam!

I learned to read at the age of three. But he was silent, like a partisan. I read to myself, silently moving my lips.
- Maybe he's dumb? - I was worried.
The speech therapist looked thoughtfully through me.
- Boys start talking later, that's okay.
- What if he's dumb?
- You yourself are mute, - the speech therapist was angry. - Look what smart beautiful eyes he has. See?
- I see.
- Well! And you are worried.
- Don't they mow?
The speech therapist was running out of patience and he escorted me out of the office. The son, pronouncing syllables in himself, put together long words from cubes: pa-ro-hod, sho-ko-lad, zha-vo-ro-nok.

He spoke at four and then did not stop for two years, even in his sleep he rained questions.
- What is the name of the back of the knee?
- How are feathers attached to pigeons? With plasticine or glue?
- What is waiting? How is it there is no such word? There are two! wait! two!

And then he finally grew up. And it turned out that the question about the other side of the knee at five o'clock in the morning is a flower. But the berries are to worry about where he hangs around in the middle of the night and why he doesn't answer calls!
Drawn at dawn, with an innocent expression on his face and a withered bouquet of roses:
- Surprise!
Truly I tell you - the path of the parent to the grave is paved with surprises.

And the main thing is not to get angry and not yell - he constantly laughs it off.
Making a menu - waiting for guests.
- I'll cook a tolma if I find a fresh grape leaf. And I'll bake the lamb. Or maybe a chicken? Or fish?
- Mom!
- And baklava! I'll bake baklava. Or eclairs?
- Mamele, will you finally calm down?
- I want the best!
- Daenerys also wanted the best! Do you remember how it ended?

We went to the grocery store. Make an appointment by phone:
- Let's do it at five, I won't have time before, we went to the store. Speed? Our speed is usual: my mother is running, I am crawling.

In May I went with friends to a role-playing game in the Smolensk region. Collected as for the storming of Everest. I even put a folding knife-screwdriver, you never know, suddenly it will be necessary for someone to unscrew something. Returned from university, grabbed half of the contents from the backpack. I felt the sleeping bag.
- Didn't you install Jeepies? Not??? You rent, mother.

I admired the contents of the first aid kit for a long time:
- I forgot to put the scalpel.
- Why do you need a scalpel?
- If there is also a scalpel, it will be possible for someone to cut out the appendix.

- Where is the book about Martin Luther King in English? I'll read to my friends at night.
- What for?
- By then we'll figure out why.

I ask if everyone eats pork - I want them sandwiches with boiled pork on the road.
- Igor doesn't eat.
- He is a Muslim?
- I do not know. It is inconvenient to ask.
- The name seems to be Russian.
- So what? My name is not particularly Armenian either!
I bought some boiled-smoked beef for Igor.
I make sandwiches: meat, cheese, tomatoes, green salad, adjika. Emil puts them in a travel bag. Getting dressed, going to go out. And then a guess pierces me:
- My God, Emil, what if Igor is a Jew?
- Mom, you do! And what if a Jew?
- And I put the beef and cheese.
- And?
- Meat with milk is not kosher! You know what, have him split the sandwich in two and eat in two meals. There will be cheese, there will be beef. Although I'm not sure that this is possible.
- Let's figure it out.
Carried out.
In the evening, a reproachful SMS arrives:
“Mom. Igor is Russian. Just a vegetarian. "

Barely moved away from the Smolensk region, a new test broke out! I passed the exam, got together with friends in Karelia - to survive in the forests and raft along the rivers.
Asked to report every evening with a message. I am a mother, I have the right to know that everything is fine with you. I don't pretend for more, one short text message and that's it! She told a story I heard from my American friend, whose husband went fishing with friends and was caught in a real storm. While one would-be fisherman was turned overboard, and the other was struggling with the elements chaotically and senselessly, the third was typing a message to his wife: "Honey, it's too early to worry!"
Laughed.
At the elevator I reassured:
- Don't expect a text message from me, start worrying right away.

We left. Day of silence.
On the second, a message comes from a friend of Petya:
"It's okay, we're sailing."
I answer, having waited the allotted ten minutes (the main thing is not to give out excitement):
"Thank you so much. Take care of yourself".
I am tormented by the thought of why Petya wrote and not Emil.

Two more days pass. No answer, no hello. The imagination draws scary scenes from the movie "The Survivor". They are haunted by the thought of where they will find a horse in the Karelian forests to save themselves from the Arctic frost, which can break out at any moment in the middle of July.
After waiting until the evening, I type a text message for Pete:
"You are there