How I Stayed in America (Part 23)

You can endlessly analyze a modern woman, her purpose, rights, strengths, and weaknesses. However, if a woman cannot get pregnant, she goes nuts. Everything else fades into the background: work, husband, friends… A woman aiming to get pregnant is always a woman with a mission. Moreover, a complex mission. The mission of

self-realization, procreation, the mission of making the spouse happy  and parents happy… In fact, an infertile woman is usually a very neurotic woman.

For about three years of my life, I was not myself. The idea of getting pregnant with the second child consumed me so much that I could not

even enjoy the first. No, of course, I loved him very much, and we were inseparable. By the way, with our first child, Fedya, we really did everything together. It was my rule, and it remains to this day — to be able to do whatever you need with the children. Not what he needs, but exactly what the parent needs. When communicating with children, I always act according to the rule of conduct on an airplane in case of an emergency: putting a mask first on myself, then on my child. Our quiet life was conducive to this. If I went to the grocery store, he went with me; I flew on the plane, he flew with me; I was at the game, he was at the game.

Nonetheless, I really wanted a second child. The idea of pregnancy has become an obsession for me. And the more I couldn’t get pregnant, the more my frustration increased. Frustration which then turned into depression… But of course, I didn’t realize it… and eventually… I started drinking. Yep, in the classical sense of this word, I started drinking.

Alcohol. I can’t say that before that I was a saint. Some time prior, I had to go through four years of touring Russia, where, due to the lack of quality drinks, the assortment usually only contained vodka. I haven’t drank vodka since then.

Anyways, in Utah, I tasted the beauty of a red Australian Shiraz for $15 a bottle. A bottle is one and a half liters, by the way. Every evening, after I put my son to bed, I opened a bottle of wine and drank alone in  complete silence. I think it was 0.75 wine on average. And sometimes more. It is noteworthy that I was not out of control nor did I lose my memory. I was just drunk. I probably drank in such manner for a year or two… I don’t remember exactly. It is not important. When my husband once tried to bring up this topic to me, I, of course, felt even more upset. He encroached on the only thing which made me happy at that   moment. He wanted to deprive me of the bottle. Yet, the bottle was my best friend. Indeed, I felt very lonely in Utah, despite the fact that I had a son and a husband. My husband was constantly on the move and, upon returning home, all he wanted was to lie down. He didn’t really care

what was happening to me. He understood that he could not help many for he simply did not have the strength and time for it.

My son demanded increased attention to himself. He was a difficult  child, and nowadays, after some time and experience, I understand that he had a certain degree of autism, from which he eventually grew out. All his preschool years were a living hell for me. However, back then I  was a mother for the first time, and I did not know anything else, so it seemed to me that all children are like that. Years later, when I had Stepan, I felt very surprised.

My first son did not speak until he was almost five years old, he also did not sleep properly, did not eat what was needed, and loved to roll on  the floor when something was not according to his plan. Although he was very fond of Lego and blocks, and at the age of five he could assemble a constructor for twelve-year-olds. How strange, I thought. To reassure everyone, I want to say that he learned three languages and just finished tenth grade at a school that is considered one of the three best schools in America, with “A” students as the majority. Fedor has become a completely independent person, who drives a car and lives essentially separate from me, in a separate apartment. But this is nowadays. Back then, fifteen years ago, everything was different.

Why did I assume that one more child would solve all my problems? I was very weak then. Immature. I didn’t fully know myself. The fact that I couldn’t get pregnant with my second child tormented me. I didn’t love myself. It seemed to me that I could not do anything, that I was a bad mother, wife, and generally a failed woman, some kind of appendage of my husband. If we had a second child, it would be much easier for me, despite the fact that it could become harder. I never cease to be amazed at my persistence. Nonetheless, at the same time, I never stop repeating to everyone: children should never, under no circumstances, be born in order to solve the problems of their parents.