It's been ten years since I left my native city. A month of Sundays! I remember when I was eighteen I tried to imagine myself thirty years old. The picture was spectacular (an independent and well-groomed lady in a hat, with a child, a bank account and a housekeeper), but ... too far away. And soon thirty! And there are hats, and an account, and a housekeeper. And children even two. But internal independence did not become of this reinforced concrete ...
Wrong me
My mother was a teacher. She is now a teacher, already deserved. He is proud of the regalia, keeps clippings about himself from the press. And my mother was never proud. I did not fit my neat picture of the world with my "misfortunes" in behavior and "uncombed" friends.
I respected my mother, but I was afraid. When the "home teacher" explained to me the incomprehensible paragraphs from the textbook, I was so lost and afraid to show my "dullness", which became entangled in the material even more. She pretended that she had mastered everything perfectly, and was ready to get a pair - just not to experience "educational methods": "Well, do not pretend that you're a fool, you're my daughter - and I should have known by analogy long ago .. . "
I became accustomed to high school "all my clothes in myself" - and for my mother to represent interests and manners, which she would have liked more. And never share with her her real thoughts and feelings. More ... I even learned to hide illnesses - because my mother's treatment was more like a drill.
What reason to get rid of this pressure was the entrance to the university! My mother did everything I could to stay at home, but then I was like a rock. I nodded, agreed, and put off pennies, collected a backpack, sat in libraries. I stayed at the other end of the country, got married here and became my husband's business partner (my mother calls it nothing more than a "businessman"). I do not go home often, and my mother finds a lot of reasons to visit me once again. Of course, I can not refuse my mother's hospitality. And every time she kisses me goodbye, I feel like a squeezed lemon ...
Thank you, but I do not want to sit down. I'll still get on the train. And this chair ... Tell me, do you have financial problems? I can see where it's bought ... Do not be shy, I can help! Oh, is it convenient for you? Okay! "One such passage - and all my lovingly picked up interior fades at once, like a sorceress waved a wand at him." Yes, I bought the "destroyed" chair by the ad - but how I was happy that his merry pattern comes to the room! Mom has the talent to devalue everything that is valuable to me ...
For the sake of children
The worst thing is not even that my mother does not like everything in my life and she is all "tactful" (but in fact pejorative) criticizes, from the choice of a partner in life to choosing a scarf. And the fact that I start to doubt myself, although I was sincerely happy about what was around me before my mother's arguments.
Let's say I go to my girlfriend for my birthday. Five-year-old Masha and two-year-old Kirill stay with the nanny. "Aunt nanny" both adore, my hands are not enough. But then I was overtaken by a thoughtful mother's gaze ... And in the evening - a heartfelt story of how she herself, left a widow, with me and with her sister of nights did not fill up. The reproach is not "on the forehead" - but in the form of touching memories of how small I called "mommy" from the bedroom, because I was afraid of the dark. Against this background, my calm looks blasphemous. I myself feel ashamed: how can I not be tortured in the field of motherhood ?! I'm a bad mother! The holiday grows dull, gray. It's strange: why am I, a grown-up aunt who has her own life, become like a rabbit before a boa constrictor? As if there were not these ten years - and I'm still a schoolgirl, blame everything for my mother. Even "everything is in order", I answer her, as if I hide a broken family vase. I'm not so independent, it turns out ...