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Drives chickens and sits in a puddle. Summer in the village, the child is 1.5 years old

Why do we take our children out of the city for the summer - and what can we expect from them after a few weeks apart? The writer Oleg Batluk, like many conscious fathers, sent his wife and son to the village - and stepped on all the “rakes” relying in this case.

Our pediatrician once said about another child, another patient of his: "A little kid ran out to me, pale, thin, with a thin neck, a typical Muscovite ..." After these words I looked attentively at Artyom. I remember him still such a ruddy loaf like the ones that used to stand on trays with forks attached to them in Soviet bakeries. And those loaves, and my son alike wanted to mash, pozhmakat. And now what am I seeing? Artyom is becoming more and more like a squeaky croissant or, worse, a baguette. "Typical Muscovite".

From pallor and thinness, from thinness and typical Moscowness, in short, out of harm's way, I sent Artyom and his wife all summer to a remote Russian province, to a real village. Our close relatives have their big house there. And besides the house - own garden, flowers in the yard, a cat on the fence, hens in a pen, in a word, a pastoral.

Of course, I had to sacrifice several precious months of communication with the child. Those very "tasty" months, when the ugly duckling turns into a beautiful swan. Well, or in a nasty swan - also happens. But my choice was not rich: between my own comfort on one side of the scale and Artem in the form of a baguette - on the other.

In the end, Pushkin was also exiled in Boldino. And it turned out pretty well, I consoled myself. Plus, I planned to visit my family from time to time, as things would allow. From my little Pushkin, I was separated only by a night on the train ...

Of course, I also had to sacrifice several precious months with my wife. Didn't I say that? (Mumma mia, how awkward!)

Summer in the countryside: history repeats itself

As a child, I myself spent every summer in the village. My mother wanted a girl. In the absence of the best, she would dress me up (not in dresses, of course, although that would explain a lot in my current behavior). Beautiful shirts, shorts, caps, sandals, baubles. In this form, they solemnly let me go past the gate.

I came out of the gate elegant and mysterious, like a Christmas tree, and sat down in the first puddle. If there was no puddle, then in the dirt. And the mud was enough - the village, after all. It usually took me a few minutes to become unusable.

Mom every time ran out into the street, saw this pig in ruffles and led me back to the yard for disinfection. Such are the pointless short fashion shows. Mother suffered greatly from this, of course.

The other day we dressed up Artem. I brought him a magnificent suit from abroad. The boy turned out - as with the pre-revolutionary postcards. Drunk, pink-cheeked. My smart little son went out of the gate of our village house and sat down in the phenomenal, irreparable dirt.

And no, these are not genes. This is karma. This is retribution.

Be a little drum

Alarming news comes from the village. Something strange is happening there. I don’t believe in these fairy tales. But, according to his wife, things began to disappear in the house. Without a trace. And it all disappears classically - one to one as in these stories about the brownie. Socks, spoons, magazines, batteries.

Our brownie is absolutely unsystematic. You can not predict that he will carry off the next time. Sniffed lump sugar - yeah, so sweet tooth. They hide candy. And he pulls a toothbrush. They clean away toothpastes and razors - small change disappears in a bowl at the entrance.

I quit reading any nonsense, Brodsky of this, Pushkin, and sat down for serious monographs about the brownies and little drums. Having read, I wrote to my wife about one sure way: you need to put slippers in the middle of an empty room for the night.

The wife did just that. However, our brownie was also illiterate: he did not read monographs and sneakers corny uper, like everything else. I began to constantly watch psychics on TNT, I choose a specialist for myself.

P.S. The wife writes from the village that all the missing things were found. And she recognized the name of the brownie. His name is Artem.

My son has grown to a sideboard. I learned to open the door from below. He opened the door, put socks, spoons, magazines, batteries, sugar, toothbrush, trifle on the sideboard. And shut the sideboard back.

P.P.S. The disappearance was revealed when guests gathered in the house and the mother-in-law with all of them climbed into the sideboard for the festive plates. Arthur caches triumphantly showered under her feet in front of an astounded audience.

It is said that one lonely slipper remained in the sideboard. The one on which I planned to catch a little drum.

Why village do not like Muscovites

Historical day - I finally managed to take a vacation, and now I, with gypsies and bears, with fanfare appeared on the threshold of the village house.

All night long on the train I was only thinking about how I could quickly calm down Artyom when he burst into tears at the sight of me after a long separation.

As soon as the kid ran out to meet me from his sleeping place, I threw both bears and gypsies and bags with gifts and opened my arms to meet my son. Artyom glanced at me, said: “Mom!”, Pointing to his wife, thumped her leg in a businesslike manner, then grabbed a cucumber and ran past me to another room.

Still not fully recovered from such a hot reception, I went out with him to the yard. And I became a witness, as I now realize with horror, the typical day of my son in the village.

Artem first took away all their food from the hens. Then he tried to tie the tails of two local cats. Then he squeezed her wand from the 85-year-old great-grandmother and began to rush with her behind the rooster. Now I understand why the village people do not like Muscovites so much.

Daddy goof again

In a few weeks that we have not seen each other, Artem downloaded a couple of upgrades from his toddler aiklaud.

"Crying Yaroslavna". Picture hand wringing, hair pulling out, falling to the floor and rolling over it, a wounded boar’s moan and a desperate look is the performance “mom went to the store”.

"Spring Syndrome". The kid chooses the wrong decision and insists on it. For example. We play with a plate with cuts, into which it is necessary to insert fragments of the corresponding form. Artyom takes the square and inserts it into the circle. Applauds himself. It is good that not standing, a modest boy is growing.

I several times defiantly negatively shake my head from side to side. I take out a square from a circle and insert it into a square. Artyom shakes his head even more pointedly, and so intensely that his ears almost fly off. He draws a square from a square and raskoryyachivaet it back in the middle of the circle.

"Downhill". I sit, sorry, on the toilet. Artem prolazit in a tightly closed door. Comes to me and makes a sound. Not just a sound, but a sharp cry.

In Artem’s signal system, a sharp cry means: “Get out!”. And my wife told me that they began to accustom him to the pot. I thought a sinful business: what if now I am present at the solemn and unique moment when my son will make an evolutionary leap from the pot to the toilet. And dreaming how I would wipe the nose of all these retrograde Temkin mothers, grandmothers and aunts with their antediluvian pot.

I quickly jumped up and gave my son an honorable place. Artem rushed to the toilet. At the very last moment, I managed to intercept this of his corporate look "Dad Loch again." And along with him - and his mobile phone, which my son threw into the bubbling bowels of the toilet. How then I was told by retrograde mothers and grandmothers, now Artem has such a useful skill: "I drop valuable things into a jerk, quickly, one hundred percent guarantee."

Six Ways to Wake Parents

A matter of honor for Artyom every morning is to wake the parents. He gets up in his crib, located near our parent, and begins.

First - artillery preparation. "Dad, Mom, Dad, Mom, Dad, Mom." And so ten minutes. Well, this is suckers calculated, son. My wife and I - grated rolls, we lie quietly. The main thing here, as in the savannah, is to not move. Otherwise, the predator will respond to the movement and then - Khan.

Then - mental attack. The same, but with modulations and accents. "Pa-pa! Ma-a-a-MA!"

After - cheap special effects. As in the movie "Moscow-Cassiopeia". Usually - a growl, like a bear came, to be afraid of everything. My wife and I are afraid, but again, the other - to move.

A couple of times he loudly fart. But it is - not a system, rather - an accident.

At this stage, Artem’s tactics usually bear the first fruits. We are half whisper under the blanket start to spar. Your turn. No, yours. I got up yesterday. And I laid. And so on.

Then comes the turn of the Maly Theater. Long heavy sighs. Tragic, with anguish. It’s as if the guy has three wives and a couple of startups. Following - loud laughter. Moreover, such a specific, clown, with grading, I do not know how the kid does it.

Here at this stage I was cut down a couple of times. I could not help it and began to laugh. And this is all a loss, if dad laughs, it means he woke up.

And lately, Artem has lost all shame. Resorted to some cheap gebistskim tricks. Just recently. All checkpoints have passed - and "mom-dad", and sighs, and laughter. We lie heroically, as quiet as sprats. I almost did not bite off my hand, restraining myself, but did not betray myself.

And suddenly - silence. No sound from the side of the crib. I listened for a few minutes. All right. Fell asleep again. Lay back. In my son, it happens sometimes.

I raise my head above the pillow - and bang, game over: Artem stands in his bed in his usual meerkat pose and, hiding, silently waiting for the victim. I barely saw me rise, immediately: "Dad, Dad, Dad!". This is like a queue from an automatic machine. And then the control in the head: "pa-pa!".

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