My mom has a terribly nasty temper. She likes things to be the way she wants them to be. If she’s in the mood right now, she’ll love me and my baby. If not, go away and don’t bother her.
When my son was born, my mother was very happy. She kind of loves children, and a grandson was born, she always wanted a son herself. She loved her grandson until one day he pissed on her expensive velour robe.
-Oh, my God, what an abomination. Helena, haven’t you potty-trained your child? Take it away!
Needless to say, after that the mother didn’t want to see her grandson for a long time. She kept saying that when he grew up, he would tell me about it. She kept telling me to teach him and bring him up properly.
She hadn’t seen her grandson in four years. She lives very close to us. Well, she calls, says she’s madly in love with the child, but she hasn’t had time to see him. She asked me to bring him all day. I was glad that my mother had finally wised up and realized something.
What do you think, in the morning before work I dropped the child off. At 12 o’clock in the afternoon, the mother calls and yells at full blast into the phone to me.
-Helena, what kind of child is this? А? He turned all my pots and vases upside down. How did you teach him? I have to clean everything up now. Come and take him away. You didn’t raise him properly!
What am I supposed to do? I’m at work! I begged and begged them to let me take the child. I didn’t want to take my son to his mother anymore. Well, he’s a baby – I understand, he can make a mess, but why make a tragedy out of it.
And so again, two years have passed, his mother again asks for her grandson, with the hope that I brought him up and he’s good, he’ll do everything as it should be done. Well, he is six years old, it is clear that he can do mischief again.
Did I take the child to his grandmother? No, of course you didn’t. I took him to her to look at pictures of him. At least she won’t be calling me, yelling into the phone – what kind of child is this.
And then she got mad, too. Well, well.
