Time for confession!

Tom's post was so tender, it almost made my cry:

100 pounds was about what my daughter weighed when I stopped carrying her upstairs to bed when she fell asleep in the living room.

Since I moved to this country, I dreamed to live in a two-store house -- a very unusual thing if you are a Russian.

My father never carried my upstairs, since there were no upstairs. We had two rooms, one for me, and another for my parents. Only now I can understand what it costed for my parents to get me a separate room.

Lorka, my girlfriend, lived in a room with 5 other people. She used to sleep with her grandmother until she died. Grandmother died, not Lorka. She graduated from the University that year.

I saw her room, even if you would get an idea of giving her a separate bed, where would you put it?

Back to 100 pounds thing.

One day I woke up and found myself in my parents' bed. I was adult enough to participate in family's drinking. On Saturdays we used to have big meals and yes... drinking, so we could say all what was on our minds.

So that day I woke up, in my parents' room, and I spent next hour wondering what I am doing here and where my parents are.

They were sleeping in my room.

My bed was designed for precisely one person. How on the Earth two adults could sleep in it?

When they woke up I asked why they didn't kick me out of their bed, all the way to my room???

They did not say anything intelligible.

That was the moment I realized what the word "parents" means. It's as nice a word as a razor.

I feel in debt that I can never pay -- since then. :)