З життя
Дитячі спогади: кожне ранкове 8 березня починалося зі стуку в двері та запитання
Коли ми з сестрою були маленькі, кожного ранку 8 березня починалося зі стуку в двері й запитання: «Дами, ви одягнені? Можна до вас увійти?»
Дівчата в ситцевих сорочках кричали у відповідь, що вони цілковито вдягнені, тож скоріше заходьте. Тим паче, що ми знаємо, що у вас там подаруночки!
До нашої кімнати заходив тато з двома букетами квітів і двома однаковими коробками, в яких лежали однакові ляльки.
Тато кілька разів намагався дарувати нам різні подарунки, але швидко зрозумів, що це не найкраще рішення: старшій доньці (тобто мені) здавалося, що її безбожно обділили, у Марічки лялька краща, більша і гарніша, а молодшій (це Марічка) завжди здавалося, що її взагалі недолюблюють, і спеціально обирають таких маленьких ляльок, щоб підкреслити її дитсадковий вік.
Переживши одну нашу потужну подвійну жіночу істерію — тато передчасно посивів, і з тих пір став дарувати нам виключно однакові подарунки.
І ми з Марічкою завжди були впевнені: 8 березня – це такий день, коли Головний Чоловік У Світі приходить зранку до тебе з квітами й коробками, і з чимось тебе вітає.
Що за свято таке 8 березня – це неважливо. Для нас це був день, коли приходив Головний Чоловік З Квітами І Подарунками.
Тоді тато був у нас єдиним чоловіком у нашому житті (дідусь ж не в рахунок — він же не чоловік, а старенький дідусь, як ви не розумієте?). Єдиним і Головним. Інших не було.
А потім пройшли роки.
І в мене, і в Марічки з’явилися інші Головні Чоловіки, які вранці 8 березня приносили нам квіти і подарунки. І якось так завжди виходило, що поспішили ми надати їм такий титул. Не дуже-то вони, врешті, чоловіками-то і виявилися. І вже тим більше, взагалі не Головними.
Титул знову повертався до нашого тата. Тато носив його гордо, звично, і не змінював традиції з однаковими коробочками. Проте, в тих коробочках вже могли лежати різні подарунки, але самі коробочки, чорт забирай, досі завжди однакові!
Потім у нас з Марічкою з’явилися сини. Єдині. По одному у кожної. Маленькі Головні Чоловіки. І, поки вони зростали, наш тато як і раніше виконував свої восьмимартовські обов’язки. Тому що — ну коли ж там заміна його підросте? А доньки ж чекають своїх квітів та коробочок.
Мій син виріс якось так дуже швидко. І я не встигла навіть помітити: а коли раптом так сталося, що він раптом став чиїмось ще Головним Чоловіком? І зранку 8 березня я отримую від нього лише телефонний дзвінок: «Мамочко, з святом тебе! Не хвилюйся, я у Марійки, повернуся в неділю».
Але!
Але цей дзвінок все одно слідує тільки після дзвінка тата, і питання: «Моя дама, ти одягнена? До візитів готова?»
…В житті кожної жінки повинні бути Чоловіки. Справжні. З великої літери. Чоловіки, сини, брати… Але Найголовнішим може бути тільки хтось один. Необов’язково це тато. Не у всіх же є тати. І брати. І сини. Але у кожної є той Самий Головний.
Той, з ким роками і десятиліттями починається ранок 8 березня.
У нас з Марічкою — це наш тато. Для якого ми від самого народження були і залишаємося Його Дамами.
Адже найголовніше для жінки – знати, що її дуже люблять.
Зі святом усіх нас, улюблені та люблячі.
І дякую за цей день нашим Найголовнішим Чоловікам.
You’re Robbing My Son Blind—He Can’t Even Afford a Light Bulb! On Sunday morning, I was curled up on the sofa with a blanket while my husband drove over to his mother’s to “change some light bulbs.” But of course, the real reason for summoning her darling boy was something else entirely: “Son, have you forgotten it’s Igor’s birthday today?” My husband’s the generous type—his salary barely lasts a week. Thankfully, he still gives me cash for the bills and groceries, but the rest? He blows it all on new video games and whatever gadgets go with them. I don’t mind; better my man enjoys his hobbies than squanders his time (and money) in pubs or nightclubs. Besides, I once read that the first forty years of childhood are the hardest for any man. I’m not telling you this for sympathy, just so you understand why my husband always has empty pockets. I have no such problem—even manage to save. I often lend him money in emergencies, but when it’s for his mum, niece, or sister, I always say no. Naturally, I remembered Igor’s birthday. Last week, I bought his present myself. Before my husband set off, I handed it over and settled down to watch a film. I didn’t go—the mutual animosity between me and my in-laws made sure of that. They think I don’t love him, accuse me of being mean because I refuse to fund their expenses or mind my sister-in-law’s kids. Once, I watched them for an hour, but they picked them up half a day late, making me miss work—when I dared complain, his mum and sister called me shameless and rude. After that, any requests to babysit were met with a firm “no.” Didn’t bother me if my husband watched the kids—he enjoys their company. Not long after my husband left, he returned—with the whole family in tow, nieces and all. His mum barged in, coat still on, and declared: “We’ve decided that, for Igor’s birthday, he’ll get the tablet he wanted—two grand it cost. You owe me a thousand pounds for your share. Pay up.” I might have bought the lad a tablet—but nothing that expensive. Obviously, I refused to hand over any cash. That’s when my husband started guilt-tripping me for being stingy. I turned on the laptop and called Igor over. In five minutes, we picked and ordered a gadget he really wanted—job done. Thrilled, Igor dashed off to his mum, who’d been sulking in the hallway. My sister-in-law always had sticky fingers—nothing in our house was safe. My mother-in-law, meanwhile, ignored my thoughtful gesture and exploded with indignation: “No one asked for your help. You were meant to give money! You’re with my son, and he’s always skint, can’t even buy a lightbulb. Hand me a thousand pounds now—you know full well that money belongs to my boy!” She reached for my handbag on the nightstand. I glared at my husband and hissed, “You’ve got three minutes to get them out of here.” In less than three minutes, he’d grabbed his mother and chucked her and the lot of them out the door. So, yes, I’d rather my husband waste his wages on games than have his mother snatch every penny. At least he spends it on things that make him happy, not on those freeloaders. Sometimes, I genuinely think I’d have been better off marrying an orphan!
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