p o bed - p a bed
The words form a paronymic pair. Part of speech of words: nouns.
bed - 1. Everything that is laid (bedding, mattress, etc.). 2. Bed. 3. The widest edge of the brick. 4. Sex, sexual relations. 5. Layer of dead bees. Examples: 1. make the bed, bed linen; 2. buy a bed, a new bed; 3. surface of the bed, perpendicular to the bed; 4. through the bed, offer a bed; 5. remove the bed.
pastel - A group of artistic materials used in graphics and painting. Examples: wax pastels, use pastels, pastel drawings, pastel colors. Print
pretend in bed
The first maternity leave was a nightmare for me, despite the fact that it was very desirable. It seemed to me that I was so smart, but I was wiping up poop, and that a monkey could do all this. Moreover, the monkey does it better because its maternal instinct is not covered by many years of civilization and family history, in which I was not prepared for motherhood. My mother said that no one would take me as a wife, there was no father, and I took on the male role in the family. I didn't know how to cook. Ironing too. But she knew how to hammer nails.
But I had a talent for reporting, which promised me a great career. I won the 21st Century Challenge in 2012, I was the youngest full-time employee of my magazine, I suddenly had a salary that my mother never had and never will have. And I didn't want it all to disappear.
In the first year of my daughter’s life, it seemed to me that I only lived when she was sleeping. When she was sleeping, I wrote a thesis, wrote a book, wrote a bunch of lectures, 2 articles, conducted more than a dozen trainings and webinars, and went to municipal meetings. This was life. A baby's scream is not life.
Then I realized that my daughter screamed so often as a sign of protest: she instinctively felt that I was ignoring her, despite breastfeeding and wearing in a sling. I did all this for myself, and not for her - so that I could continue working and pay as little attention to the child as possible.
Everyone congratulated me on my success: writing a book at 25 is truly an achievement. And I was thinking about the cost of my book for Mashenka. How many tears she shed, seeking my attention when I edited the manuscript to meet the deadline set by the publisher. How many cartoons did she have to put into her fragile brain to give herself an hour of work (from the cartoons she woke up at night and shouted some phrases from them).
One day, when my daughter was just over a year old, when I was at the limit of fatigue in the evening, my daughter knocked over a full bowl of soup on the floor. I spanked her so much that I myself burst into tears of pity. She screamed and clung to me, as if wanting to find a normal, different mother.
I cried and realized that something was wrong with me. I caught myself thinking that even when I play with the child, I am not here and now. I'm on the computer. I'm in the articles! And she screams and screams to bring me back here, and I scream at her because I can’t stand her screaming anymore. My husband and I tossed our daughter from hand to hand so that we could both have time to work. And both did not have time. This had to be changed.
All these years I was taught (or did I learn it myself?) male thinking and male reaction to the world, the essence of which is to enjoy the result. That's why I hated housekeeping and childcare so much. After all, you wash the dishes, cook, wipe your butt - and after a couple of hours you will have to wash the same plate and the same butt again. Everything will be different if you enjoy the process.
I said to myself: “Alesya, you still lived when Masha was sleeping. Now try to live when she’s awake and enjoy it to the fullest.” I promised myself not to waste another hour of my life and to live here and now, with my daughter, and not a computer, not articles, not what I “owe” to someone.
With every plate I knocked over, I grew. At first I stopped hitting my daughter. Then she stopped calling her names, and just started swearing into the air about the situation - agree, this is better. Then the swearing went away. After all, I've practically reached nirvana and am using the overturned plate situation as an opportunity to strengthen our relationship.
I started doing household chores while entertaining my daughter. And I realized that I didn’t know her at all before, despite the fact that I was with her 24 hours a day.
Then I refused the business trip, refused to write all the articles, canceled lectures, and abandoned my own project. And all summer long she walked with her daughter in the park, cooked her favorite dishes with her, sculpted Luntik and Baba Kapa out of plasticine, blew huge bubbles, inflated and twisted giraffe-shaped balloons. I gave my husband the opportunity to immerse himself in his work and no longer dumped the child on him so that I could work myself. In our house, pancakes and casseroles appeared instead of dumplings and pasta.
And I didn't go crazy. I didn't miss journalism. On the contrary: the thought of living as before - studying other people's destinies and burying my nose in the computer, when the destinies of loved ones pass by - horrified me.
Photo: Elena Lonskaya
Summer is over. In the fall, I was going to return from maternity leave to work. Instead, I didn't buy condoms. I didn’t go to the seaside and prepared to vomit in the toilet in the morning and hang around in front of the gynecologist’s office.
I'm pregnant again and my whole life is flashing before my eyes. My family, where there was no father, and people talked to each other as if they were strangers, where there were never pies on weekends and communion on Sundays, where I waited for my mother from work to burst into tears and complain about my grandmother again.
My family is an excellent example of the degeneration of the Russian nation. Neither my mother nor I had any brothers or sisters. Around me were strangers, neurotic children of the same single mothers, and they desperately beat each other and blackmailed, sang criminal songs, smoked, swore and took drugs right at school.
Almost all of my mother's friends remained spinsters. I have never seen a pregnant woman until she was 18 years old, and maybe later. And two fat gynecologists told us about sex in the assembly hall, showing scary photographs of syphilis and gonorrhea, convincing us that we need to protect ourselves all our lives, because what hope can we, bitches from the district school, have for a normal family with a loving, non-drinking husband.
And I saved my virginity just for this. I entered a good university on a budget, where the presenter of one of the journalistic workshops noticed me and took me to his editorial office. We wrote articles together and started teaching together. And they started living together. I hope we will grow old together too.
We both began to work fanatically, because a career seemed to us an escape from the anxiety and neuroticism of our families and our country, we did something useful, and it worked out for us.
And then, at the peak of my career, the fear of death began to overwhelm me. Tomorrow I could die in a car accident or get cancer. Cancer is the future for most of us. The only question is whether at 70 or 30. What if at 30? I imagined my funeral. Will the heroes of my articles come to them? Those whom I helped do not remember my name, those whom I harmed will be glad that I died. Will my students or colleagues come to them? I think that you can expect condolences from them on the wall on VKontakte. Do I have many close people? God, God, there are almost none of them...
I drove all my friends away from me. Everyone has no time, everyone is working - because I behaved the same way. History knows many examples of talented people dying alone. I don't want it that way.
I started to get sick. I began to experience hypochondria, incomprehensible pain, I was taken to the hospital, I was examined, I had a bunch of expensive pills. Nothing helped. Until I refused the condom. Since then, during my entire two-year perinatal period, I have not treated anything except a runny nose and heartburn. Surprisingly, after the resumption of my monthly cycle, when I began to feel guilty again for using protection, the sores returned.
Our life is essentially planning for death. To understand how to live, you must choose death. I chose my grandchildren at my bedside. And for there to be such a thing, we need to start preparing the ground for it now.
I once watched the film “Still Alice” - about a woman who fell ill with Alzheimer’s at the age of 50, while at the peak of her career. She began to forget not only the subject she was teaching, but also the way home, then the way to the toilet (and peed herself!), then she did not recognize her daughters.
This would be a scary movie if it weren't for the answer it gives. This woman was always so loving that her daughter, nurse and husband looked after her until her death, despite the fact that her mind was completely destroyed. They did not abandon her not because she is a professional and an author of books, not because of her merits. And in memory of her love. Because despite her broken mind, she was a pleasure to be around.
I realized that you can become a great professional, but Alzheimer’s will come and everything will be lost. All your achievements are nothing. There is only one achievement that a person actually learns throughout his life - this is to make the right choice of his reaction in response to a stimulus.
In one good book I read what really distinguishes us from animals is the freedom to choose between stimulus and response. But this freedom exists only for a certain time - until our choice becomes a habit. Was love my habit? A man accustomed to living by love with a destroyed mind, seeing a nurse who seems “stranger” to him, will not throw a jug at her, will not be rude to the nurse, but will be affectionate with her. I can't guarantee that if I had Alzheimer's. But I realized that my husband and grandchildren would sit by the bedside of the one who loved them, and not by the one who devoted his whole life to his career.
I never planned to have many children. Although only later, as an adult, I remembered that at school I only chose girlfriends with many children as friends - I could deal with them. I remember one day I was returning home from school and looking at the road full of foreign cars. I imagined myself in the future - alone, but in a red Ferrari. How I make money for it doesn’t matter, the main thing is that I will be lonely, romantic, and not understood by anyone.
I also imagined a child next to me, but never a husband. This was a scenario that I needed to get out of. And from which, unfortunately, many of my friends and relatives did not come out. There were no normal families around me. During school years, a child does not see normal adult men around him. All teachers are women. If there is no father, it is a disaster.
My boy classmates were stupid and promised a career as alcoholics. I started falling in love with girls. I could do a completely different coming out now. But, fortunately, I had creativity: in the evenings and nights I wrote novels, and put all my energy there. In one of my children's novels, the girl has a dad, an uncle, an aunt, a brother - everything that I didn't have. And, characteristically, there is no mother, grandmother and grandfather (what I had) - I only analyzed this later.
Nick Vujicic says that if you don’t meet a miracle, become a miracle for someone. I want to revive our family. In addition, I want to be an example for many of my friends - those who do not dare to have children. One of my friends asked me: what is it like to give birth at 23 years old (it turns out that this is considered early!). She writes:
“I’m 23 now... And I’m busy with my nephews and I understand that I’m not at all ready for my children now. And probably in the next five years too. I catch myself feeling that a child just needs a sea of love, emotions, warmth, but I don’t have this sea now. Everything goes on stage (she is a singer) In general, I’m not ready yet. And besides, I have so many ideas for the scene!”
Olga, you cannot be ready for the birth of a child at 20, 30, or 40 years old simply because you cannot be prepared for uncontrollable stress and yelling. And the sea of love - where can you get it, Olga... But you won’t be alone! Look, this love is enough for two... When I was overwhelmed, Sasha was nearby! Don’t make the mistake that many have made: “I’m not a good enough mother yet, so I’ll put it off for 10 years.” It’s the same as saying “I don’t know how to play the piano now, so I’ll buy one in 10 years.” And your health, will you still have health in 10 years? And in general... life?
After my first birth, the changes in my body shocked me. But everything turned out to be fixable. And what can’t be fixed means there’s nothing to lose, that means! The stretch marks are still there. The tits are already “used” anyway, and with milk they at least look decent, larger in size. So “natural breast enlargement” during pregnancy will only benefit me. Hair and teeth are already damaged anyway. I'm already used to having trouble sleeping at night. Depression on maternity leave comes not from lack of sleep, but from perfectionism and sensory hunger. Happy people don't die without sleep!
There are forgotten slings lying around in the closets, on the balcony there is a stroller, a bathtub, a highchair, a playpen and bags of children's clothes - why should something go to waste? Why lose qualifications? I learned more in these two years than in my entire previous life.
A year ago I dreamed of going with my husband somewhere to Paris. But it turned out that you can’t take the child (she has a special diet that won’t be available in any hotel), and she can’t even sleep without me. And you need to save money for an apartment...
But it turns out that you can relax and travel here and now: we went to the Trinity-Sergius Lavra, after which Paris lost all its charm for me. We walked around the center of Moscow, and Paris fell for the second time in my eyes. Our Butovo ponds, where you can go any day with a barbecue - here it is, our sea, and, it turns out, there is no need for more.
Just like without long trips, you can live without pineapples, shrimp and yoghurts with peaches, so the diet of a nursing mother, even a hypoallergenic one, no longer scares me. I was shocked at how spoiled I was by the age of consumerism and now I am happy to shake it off. I bought socks for 200 rubles! Cloths for wiping tables for 180!
Am I afraid of the prospect of becoming dull and uninteresting to my husband? It is not the farm that makes a woman uninteresting. If she’s not interesting behind the stove, it means she was like that before, she was just pretending. During my first maternity leave, I read as much literature, both classics and nonfiction, as I have never read in my entire life. This helps me in raising my child and, most importantly, myself. My new knowledge becomes the subject of interesting discussions with my husband. We always have something to talk about.
It is smart mothers, with higher education, with books, doctoral dissertations and glasses, who should raise children. And continue to train your mind and expand your teaching qualifications. A good mother and housewife is a profession that requires so much knowledge that higher education does not provide, but only continuous self-education. For whose sake otherwise is our mind? For the sake of the boss, clients?
If a man gives his mind and his strength to his career, he must draw them somewhere, and if a woman does the same, then who will fill the jug from which both draw? Our mothers did this, but they did it poorly - not the way we needed. We grew up in a family of deliverers, where they laid their lives on us (while destroying our husbands, our fathers!), and that is why we do not want to have only one child and lay our lives on him. And there must be someone who fills the family jug with wisdom, strength, intelligence, love, calmness. I would like to claim this high role and be worthy of it. And I still have a lot to learn, learn, this is also a career!
Now I have the lowest position in this career - I am the servant of my only child. Being a servant is actually uninteresting and insulting! Therefore, the natural desire is to move further up the career ladder and become a manager, head of a department. When there are three children, I will already be a manager. And the majority remain servants and judge good work incorrectly only because they have not been bosses.
To tell the truth, it’s already hard for me: during pregnancy, old sores woke up. I understand that this path is the most difficult. And I don't know how long I'll be enough. I reserve the right to say “stop.” Or take a break.
I don’t want to say that every woman must fulfill some “norm.” I want to say that the period of healthy life is too short to spend it on entertainment. And whoever can, whoever is prepared, must. The rest need something else. But everyone should. Because the inscription on the car “my life - my rules” is a complete lie. Because if your life is yours, then you choose when and where you are born and when you leave. But this is not the case!
Therefore, life is not yours. Therefore, you rent it with certain obligations. And the rules of the game are set by the One who gave you this life (and death).
I'm trying to understand these rules of the game and I see that my feminine essence is not very prepared for a career, because my biological advantages are not used there. Playing by the rules means using what you are given. Not only the brains, but also the uterus. The most delicate organ, which is the first in a woman to fail. And which is the last thing people remember. It is considered despicable, because it brings us closer to animals. The one that binds us hand and foot.
Women, you are already shackled hand and foot. Shackled by the lack of desired health and the opportunity to extend their youth and life even for a minute. And the aversion to the biological role of a woman is caused by the fact that she, this role, simply reminds of this constraint - of suffering, aging, death. About what civilization has hidden, but pregnant women and those with many children bring out. It's uncivilized to have many children. And the one who takes on this cross, as it were, becomes a reproach to those around him, a reminder of the animal.
But my text is still about the Spirit. And, of course, the Lord did not call to give birth and give birth. The Lord called to love. And if anyone is not ready to use the womb for His good (and therefore with love), then don’t. For me, the path of love is this. But I don't want to say that he is the only one. I am not addressing all women in this coming out, because I am aware that there are other ways to serve the Lord.
I appeal to those who miss this path because they have set the goal of their life to be self-realization. This is what it says in the coolest bestselling psychotherapeutic books of the century. And having children interferes with this, to put it mildly. Trying to combine both means burning out and not being able to keep up with either. Therefore, children somehow after self-realization, after a goal.
This goal—self-realization—seems to be one of the most noble. In the end, it is also aimed at saving humanity. But I can’t understand where my “self-realization” is. Yesterday I thought that I should realize myself in music, then in journalism, today I’m learning to cook borscht, tomorrow I’ll go sew slings.
I will change, my interests will change, my self-realization will change. I cannot cling to what is changeable and what will be taken away from me tomorrow. Auschwitz might come, and then where will my self-realization be? If your legs and arms, sight or hearing are lost, you will have to look for a new self-realization that suits the circumstances.
Therefore, self-realization in itself is not a goal, it is a means. A means without a goal has no meaning. It can help you come to the Lord, learn to love, help your neighbor, or it can cause harm. Millions of people have confused the end with the means and pay money for business trainings like “how to find yourself.”
Finding yourself is an impossible goal and can bring endless profits to all sorts of gurus. Finding yourself is a whim that brings pleasure. Childbirth and pregnancy bring much less pleasure. I would say it is of a different order, and one must learn to receive it. And it is extremely difficult for a person focused on “self-realization” to obtain this pleasure.
But if you have the only worthwhile goal - to serve the One who gave you life and humbly understand that He has the right to take it away at any moment - the habits of life and our daily aspirations appear in a different light. And the notorious self-realization in itself is no longer so exciting. And for some reason I really want to give birth. Perhaps to increase the number of those who serve Him. Kind, wise, loving. And put self-realization and self-searching in this direction. As a means to a good end. And then for some reason everything starts to work out! The mosaic is coming together! The speed of life decreases, and so does anxiety. It's like you've climbed out of a squirrel wheel.
Photo: Elena Lonskaya
There are two playgrounds near our house. Through one of them, working citizens paved the way to the metro, through the other - to the clinic. The same people cruise back and forth in the evenings, not noticing the children running around. Sometimes they step on scattered crayons. Not once, not once did they look around them. They are not here and now. They are there, in offices, in thoughts, in the future.
I sit on a bench and look at the office workers who cross the platform with long, masculine strides on their way to work. Heavy eyeliner, black trousers, office shoes, cigarettes, smartphones. Is it them? Is this how they want to see themselves?
On another site, the eyeliner is already aged, and legs in trousers are already making their way to the clinic. I just want both of them to stop and see that the “adults on the playground” somehow look happier and more natural. I believe that if they ever feel and see this, they will also not want to leave this little paradise where you are here and now. But they, these passing ones, are from some other world from which I escaped. Our worlds don't intersect. They don’t see us, but we, having escaped from the squirrel wheel, see them very well. Source
