Who will and what she will do ...
... Lee dragged the Ikeev stand and became sufficient growth to open the refrigerator alone. "What I want?" She asked himself, looking around the shelves. Lee will choose, and it is meaningless to offer it. It is already meaningless. In order not to listen to the grumpy "close a refrigerator, you can not keep open for a long time", which is written in my head forever, I turn to the window.
The forehead rested into plastic ice, the hand was racing a cup of tea. Outside the window of November-notch. Late autumn threw a dense snow on the street, like a sheepskin Tulup. This month was discussed for us. Ambiguous. Lika refused to walk and swim, "I myself" began to sound more often, it became more tied to dad, and he disappeared at work. In the last numbers, a schedule was shot. This time seemed to me densely brewed tea. A wonderful drink, but if you move to a brew - bitter, all shades in it are drush, and even one cup will drink without pleasure. Often I was suppressed, Likina refusals from the simplest actions pulled my spiritual forces from me.
However, whether new qualities appeared, and the ones I knew were deeper than, rich. As if her portrait, composed in many ways, our observations and guesses, described a little clearer, thanks to her new interests, actions, the manifestation of his "want". Lika became much more independent, and it was for me a new feeling. For these two and a half years, I got used to the idea that my child is a continuation of me. When I thought, where I would be, then the thought was right on a stretched gum "with whom will be and what it will do." Yes, I gave and give her a famous kind of freedom in trifles - the choice of clothes, food, games, but basically she did what I consider it necessary.
How would it be more successful? At first, our family was played by a duet - everyone played on his own, listened to each other, tried to come to something common and improvised. Then the face was born, and we became a trio. At first, she just listened to our music, then sat down on the drums - to the place, and sometimes the nefple ranged by noise, began to somehow beat the rhythm, which changed the execution of our duet. Then the daughter took his tool. She repeated after me, yes, mostly for me. After - two tones above, in the prison: everything is the same thing that I do, but a little in my own way. And now it began her timid variations: to repeat the mom, she adds a few notes of her. It is still rarely rational, convenient and by the way. But somehow you need to learn to play and compose your own.
It was the sketch of an invisible, but real emotional landscape, against which the end of breastfeeding occurred. Under these conditions, it passed, as a regularity - whether it just became older.