Sculpture by Daria Butriashkina

When my husband and I started renovating my son Leonid’s room by ourselves, I realized that my son would soon be 3, I would soon be 30, and I still had not become that grown-up woman, the daughter of my mom’s friend, call it whatever you want. I thought that I wanted to write some words in his room that would describe my feelings and the truth about me as his mother. Then suddenly such a phrase came to my mind. I wrote it down, but only in my notes. Some time passed, and the slightly crazy mother of Leonid got the idea to move to a village. So we will be renovating again, and I will finally write this somewhere in his little room. This year I was given a certificate for clay modeling. I postponed it for a long time, since over the last six months motherhood somewhat overshadowed self-realization. And finally I made my first sculpture and wrote these words somewhere. Let it not be in his room, let my son not understand them yet, but this is the truth about me. About the two of us. And about many mothers, I think. On the back of the sculpture this phrase is written: When everyone wanted to hear the “patter of little feet,” I had not thought about it yet, because I was not yet standing firmly on the ground on my own feet. Now I rejoice when I hear the rumble of your small and later big wings. For the one who wants a child For the one who is not sure if she wants one For the one who is afraid For the one who is already a mother but still doubts herself For every person who was once a child For the one who wants to understand her mother For my son Leonid. And for me.