I'm sorry, please.
- For all that I will do in the next 18 years. For all that I will miss. For all that I do not understand. For all the calls to school that you will try not to tell me about.
- For all cases when you will be ashamed of me. For all my initiatives. For all the girls you won't dare invite to dinner with us.
- For all my things: "But I warned you and your mother! For the fact that when your school invites all parents to a brannbolny match, I will take it a little more seriously than it should be. That I will call your mathematician "brainless fool". That I will stick five of your buddies.
- For buying a minivan.
- That I will walk in shorts.
- That when you are first invited to your birthday party, we will be late. That I'd be pissed off by the queues at Grena-Lund Park. That I'd say to the skateboard shop clerk, "Brother.
- That I couldn't understand that you didn't really want to play football, but wanted to go to gymnastics. That I will always forget to lock myself in the bathroom.
- For charter flights. For a cowboy hat. For a T-shirt "A real man weighs 90+". For the ridiculous speech I pushed at your prom.
- To all those times when, having drunk, I will tell you the same joke about two Irishmen in a boat.
- I apologize to you for all this.
But when I get you, it would be good for you to remember that for me you will always be a one-year-old bedbug, which stands naked in the middle of the hallway and, happily pressing a rag lion to the chest, smiling toothless smile.
When it's hard to be with me. When it's awkward for me. When I am not being fair. Remember this day, please. The day you refused to admit where you stuck your car keys.
And keep in mind, you're the first one to start.
Your dad
What do you need to know about the light bulbs in the bathroom
What my son needs to know about this world's construction.
Okay, here's the deal. I'm your dad. I see you're learning it quietly yourself. So far, you've been swimming along the stream for the most part, and we've been letting you do the rest, but as far as I know, you've been studying for a year and a half already, and at that age you can start to learn some things. To all the Layfhaks. Which, frankly speaking, can not but please.
Note: I intend to bring to your attention that being a parent, in general, is not such a pleasure, as it seems from the outside. You have to keep a lot of things in mind. Bearing bags. Children's chairs. Lullabies. Spare mittens. Poop. Poop is the main thing. You have to deal with an incredible amount of poop all the time. No, nothing personal. Ask whoever you want, who has a small child. The whole first year of his life, your own rotates around the poop.
Poop. Not pooping. Oh, I pooped myself. Olfactory sensations from poops. Waiting for poop. You have no idea how much time it takes a baby's parents to wait for poop.
Do you understand? It continues all the time as soon as a person decides it's time to multiply. Your whole life is subject to poop logistics. You talk about it with strangers without a shadow of embarrassment. You discuss consistency, color, frequency. You share your experience. How to wash your hands from poop. The better to wash laundry. How to dig poop out of the gaps between tiles on the bathroom floor. You get into poop metaphysics. You look at this case from a scientific point of view. When Swiss scientists discovered a previously unknown particle with FTL speed, all the parents of the babies exclaimed: "Poop! It's got to be a poop.
But there are worse things than poop. When you don't understand what's wrong with your child. When you watch his face scream, and you get lost in guesswork: "Really? It seems that he... Or maybe he's just winking? Or maybe it's gases? Good Lord, we're on board the Ryan Airways, so make sure it's just gases! Then you have to wait five seconds. And this, I'll tell you, is the longest five seconds in the universe.
In each of which fits ten thousand eternity and one life-affirming French film drama. And here, at last, as in a scene from "Matrix" when time slows down the course, there is a smell. It acts on you like a dustbag blow. And then - the way to the toilet - a way similar to the procession through the Colosseum of slaves of fighting rocks to fight with the lions. Yes, on the way back you will feel like a legionnaire returning to Rome after the victory over the barbarians, but on the way back there your name is: gladiator.
When you grow up, I will tell you about the very first poop. A duct duct. Which is produced by all babies as soon as they are born. It is black as coal.