"One day I'll have a son, and I'll do everything backwards. From the time he's three I'll repeat: 'Sweetheart, you don't have to be an engineer. You don't have to be a lawyer. It doesn't matter what you become when you grow up. You want to be a pathologist? Wonderful! A football commentator? Be my guest! A clown at a shopping mall? Excellent choice!'
And on his thirtieth birthday he'll come to me — sweaty, balding clown with smudged makeup on his face. And he'll say: "Mom, I'm thirty years old and I'm a clown at a shopping mall! Is this the life you wanted for me?! What were you thinking when you told me higher education wasn't necessary? What did you want, mom, when you let me play with the boys instead of solving problems?" And I'll say: "Sweetheart, I didn't want to force you — you didn't love math, you loved playing with the kids." And he'll answer: "I didn't know what that would lead to, I was little and couldn't decide anything, and you, you, you ruined my life," and he'll smear the makeup further across his face with a dirty sleeve. Then I'll stand up, look at him intently, and say: "So here it is: there are two kinds of people in the world — some live, others look for someone to blame. If you don't understand that, you're an idiot." He'll go "oh" and faint.
He'll need about five years of therapy.
Or maybe it'll be like this… When one day I have a son, I'll do everything the other way. From the time he's three I'll repeat: "Don't be an idiot, think about your future. Study math, unless you want to spend your whole life as a call center operator."
And when he turns 30 he'll come to me — sweaty, balding programmer with deep wrinkles on his face — and he'll say: "Mom! I'm 30 and I work at Google. I work 20 hours a day, I have no family, mom. What were you thinking when you told me a good job would make me happy? What were you imagining when you forced me to study math?" And I'll say: "Honey, I wanted you to get a good education, to have lots of opportunities." And he'll answer: "What the hell are these opportunities for, when I'm miserable, mom? I walk past the clown at the shopping mall and envy him for being happy. I could have been in his place — but you, you, you ruined my life," and he'll wipe his nose under his glasses with his thumbs. Then I'll stand up, look at him intently, and say: "So here it is: there are two kinds of people in the world — some live, others spend the whole time complaining. And if you don't understand that, you're an idiot." He'll go "oh" and faint.
And he'll need about five years of therapy.
Or maybe not… One day I'll have a son and I'll do everything the other way. From the time he's three I'll repeat: "I'm not here to be your support. I'm by your side because I love you. Go to your father, sweetheart, ask him what to do — I don't want to be the court of last resort."
And when he turns thirty he'll come to me — sweaty, balding director with melancholy in his eyes — and he'll say: "Mom, I'm thirty years old. And for thirty years I've been wondering what I have to do to win your attention. I dedicated ten films and five plays to you, I wrote a book about you, mom. But I think you don't care. Why have you never given your opinion? Why have you always pushed me off to dad?" And I'll say: "Honey, I didn't want to decide anything for you. I just love you, and for advice you have a father." And he'll answer: "What the hell do I want with dad's advice when I'm asking you, mom? My whole life I've been chasing your attention, I'd give anything if just once, just once you'd think about me. With your silence, your distance, you, you, you ruined my life," and he'll theatrically slap his forehead. Then I'll stand up, look at him intently, and say: "So here it is: there are two kinds of people in the world — some live, others spend the whole time waiting for something. And if you don't understand that, you're an idiot." He'll go "oh" and faint.
And he'll need about five years of therapy.
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Relax! No matter how hard we try to be the perfect mother, our children will always have something to tell their therapist anyway.
Source: Facebook (Svetlana Khmel)