children [Theme] Page 2

David held his hand on his girlfriend's belly, filled with love for a man he had never seen, feeling that his life was passing into the power of a non-existent love. His mother often said that every child is a heart transplant. Now he understood what she meant.

The love of a parent for a child is a strange thing. Every other love - for other people - begins somewhere. But we loved this man for an eternity, we loved him even before he was born. No matter how much you prepare, the first moment for all mothers and fathers is always a shock: when a wave of feelings overwhelms you and the ground disappears from under your feet. It is impossible to understand this because there is nothing to compare it with. It's like trying to describe the feeling of sand between your toes or snowflakes on your tongue to someone who has lived in a dark room all their life. The soul turns over.

- When I spilled milk as a child, my father always punished me. It didn't make me any more dexterous. I just started to be afraid to take milk in my hands. Remember this.

Parental wounds do not heal.

He once heard that in order to mentally prepare for parenthood, you need to go to a rock festival and live in the same tent with your fat, stoned friends. From morning to evening you stagger like a somnambulist, in a constant state of acute lack of sleep, your clothes are all smeared with food that you yourself only ate on rare occasions, there is an eternal ringing in your ears. As soon as you walk past a puddle, some idiot, giggling, will immediately jump into it with both feet, and as soon as you retire to the toilet, they immediately start banging on the door and demanding that you come out. They wake you up in the middle of the night to share with you some innermost thoughts, and in the morning you often wake up in someone's puddle.

But the honey badger is repulsed and he doesn’t give a fuck!

I won't love anyone.

- Oh, Pinocchio, fathers sometimes fall into despair, like everyone else. But over time, they realize that this is not what they wanted to say at all.

I have sympathy for adults. Towards children - with interest. They can grow into good people.

A child’s hobby ceases to be just a child’s hobby; every year parents spend more and more time on it, sacrifice their own interests and pay so much money that the hobby firmly bites into their adult brain. It begins to symbolize something else, either compensating or exacerbating their adult failures and failures.

The fate of parents is to be too small a blanket: no matter how hard you try to cover everyone, someone still gets cold.

Yes, this is what happens to sons whose fathers were too heavy on whiskey: they either drink it without drying it out or don’t drink it at all. There is no average.

When you're 17, you know for sure that there are no more two different people than you and your mom. When you're 37 and she leaves, you can't stop being amazed at how much you consist of her - her sayings, movie quotes, favorite songs, stories, friends and optimism in spite of everything.

It goes without saying that children are inferior to adults.