The name Liu Jirong may not be familiar to many people, but her works have repeatedly won the "Most Popular Readers Award" from "Readers" and "Youth Digest". I also particularly like the parent-child stories she writes, which contain tears, laughter, tenderness, and warmth. And all these feelings stem from the word "love". The imperfect child in her works can always move me inadvertently.

For example, in "Please Allow the White Hyacinth to Be Shy", the child in the kindergarten ate himself until his stomach hurt in order to grow up quickly and help his mother reduce the burden; "The Man Sitting on the Roadside Applauding" In "With You, I'm Not Afraid of Growing Old", the big brother who is covered with thorns like a rose but secretly delivers express delivery A child with candy in his pocket.

The imperfect child in her works also hides the shadow of our equally imperfect child. The author uses her loving eyes to discover many shining points from this imperfect child, so they can grow up together happily.

"With you, I am not afraid of growing old"

In the past, I liked children. I feel that a soft and sweet child's words can make flowers all over the world laugh; a childish and sincere blowing kiss is enough to be worth ten miles of spring breeze, making the mountains and rivers beautiful and the time passing by.

After becoming a mother, I finally know: the cute little angel will roll around in the street and cry unreasonably; will not eat for a whole day, or will eat uncontrollably until it hurts his stomach; will try hard to stuff his little finger into the power socket , trying to recharge myself.

I turned into a rescue team member, fighting here and there, exhausted. I don’t understand: a diamond only has 58 facets, so why do young children have a thousand inexplicable behaviors?

I can’t help but envy my mother. According to her, when I was a child, what I gave her the most was happiness, comfort and courage, instead of exhaustion, helplessness and confusion.

The little thing finally fell asleep. As if calling the fire alarm, I dialed my mother’s phone, listed all the misbehaviors of my daughter, and asked with choked eyes: "As a mother, why did you meet a rose? I met a rose." "Is it a thorn?"

After pondering for a moment, the old man responded gently: "When you were four years old, you played with fire and almost burned down the whole family; when you were five years old, you hid on the roof and slept, making your family cry and search all night; when you were seven or eight years old, Years old, I refuse to listen to any opinions from adults..." Holding the phone, I was sweating, my cheeks were burning, and I was speechless.

My mother said: "thorns are also part of the rose."

Back then, if my mother only saw thorns, the rose garden would be nothing more than a thorn bush. It turns out that only with a wise eye can you find the beauty of roses; only with a wise heart can you smell the fragrance of roses.

The thorns of red roses can dance

I began to imitate my mother and look at those "thorns" calmly.

When eating fast food, she did her best to mix cola, ice cream, French fries, and burgers into a ball, and ate them with relish. Just as she was horrified, she suddenly brought the spoon to my lips. Faced with the complex ingredients and horrible color of the food, I tried my best to refuse, but she insisted on persuading me. Just when I couldn't bear it anymore, my cell phone rang suddenly. I jumped to the window and chatted with the strange salesman for a long time. It wasn't until I caught a glimpse of my daughter's cup that it bottomed out that I sat back down with a chuckle.

At this point, I thought I had successfully passed the level and advanced smoothly. Who knew what happened next made me completely lose control.

I am going to participate in a speech contest. Because it is related to the corporate image, the department specially invited experts to make my manuscript colorful. A group of enthusiastic people came up with ideas and prepared music and dance. It was colorful and beautiful. During the rehearsal, there was thunderous applause and everyone cheered. I was so excited that I took the video home to show off. After watching it, my daughter did not cheer, but asked in surprise: "Mom, are you acting in a sketch? But you are not as good as Zhao Benshan!"

This sentence was as sharp as a thorn, which made me feel painful and nervous. Annoyed: "I'm not good, don't call me mom! From now on, you can call Zhao Benshan mom!" The daughter's eyes suddenly became wet, and she silently returned to the bedroom. But those harsh words lingered and kept replaying in my ears.

On the day of the official competition, the venue was very lively, and almost all the contestants became what my daughter called "sketch actors."

I completely sobered up, refused the music and choreography, and used my own original manuscript. Surprisingly, I won first place.

My daughter watched the video carefully, and I looked at her anxiously. Finally, she applauded enthusiastically: "Mom, what you said is great! It's great!" She started dancing around me, round and round. I stood up too and jumped awkwardly with her, round and round.

The thorns of red roses dance. The tiny flower thorns are completely transparent. They don't know how to be gentle and soft, and they don't know how to cater to your liking, but they can penetrate all the glitz and noise and let you see the simplest and true beauty.

The tears of blue roses can play the piano

Time passes, the flowers and leaves bloom, and my children grow up slowly. But I increasingly don’t understand why the red rose that loves to laugh so much turns into a blue rose that loves to cry.

It’s winter vacation, and our family went to participate in the Ice and Snow Festival held on the grassland. My daughter has always been very well-behaved. When taking pictures, I smile when I want her to.

But when we were playing, she always kept a distance from us. She watched the ice sculptures alone, picked up pine cones alone, and talked to the wild deer alone. When she got home in the evening, she asked to sit in the back seat alone as soon as she got in the car. There was suddenly an atmosphere of alienation between the family.

In the rearview mirror, I saw my daughter staring out the window for a long time, motionless. I called several times, and the child turned around blankly. What I saw was a face full of tears. It turned out that she was secretly crying behind our back.

I was surprised and annoyed, and shouted: "Dad dotes on you, mom loves you, cooks your favorite meals, buys your favorite toys, no matter how tired you are at work, I will always find time to play with you, you What's there to cry about?"

My husband signaled me to shut up. He stopped the car, sat in the back seat, and asked my daughter gently: "Why are you crying?" My daughter pointed out the window and murmured in her sleep. Whisper: "Look, it's so beautiful outside!"

Follow the little hand and look: deep in the desert, the sunset is like red wine, and the snow is slightly pink. There is an eagle with its wings spread out, flying gracefully and low, and each feather is reflected golden and red by the backlight. At this time, this desert hero was intoxicated, as if he would melt into the haze in the next second. For no apparent reason, my eyes started to get wet.

It turns out that some tears are the rain of cherry blossoms under the sun, full of warm gratitude, rather than resentment.

I squeezed into the back seat and apologized to my child. The child happily accepted it and hooked his fingers with me, wishing to be friendly for ten thousand years. The car continued to move forward, and we sat head to head together. My daughter told me: when watching cartoons, she cried because the pony fell off the cliff; when it rained, she cried because the little green-winged bug had nowhere to hide. while reading a fairy tale book, she cried because the little mermaid turned into foam...

Time tilts here, blooming blue roses like sea water, and those warm teardrops are like flowers falling on the strings of a piano, There is a sound. We used to be so sensitive when we were children, but once we grow up, we immediately forget the innocence and infatuation of the past. We only use the hearts of adults to test the belly of "little people", regard tears as the signature of a weak personality, and stop them without reason. .

Childlike innocence is originally pure white and soft. Please allow your children to cry, allow your children to laugh, and allow them to grow up in the most natural way.

With you, I am not afraid of growing old.

Before my daughter was born, I had a wonderful fantasy of dressing her up as the most dazzling little princess. But now, I have become her big doll. She has countless whimsical ideas and will dress her mother up as she pleases whenever she gets the chance.

On the weekend morning, we were having fun, and the courier suddenly knocked on the door. I appeared to him very stylish: clad in bedsheets, holding a shiny wand, with a bunch of messy bows in my hair. But the courier waved his hand calmly: "Ask your mother to come out and sign!" I was dumbfounded when my daughter flashed out from behind the door. Wearing an apron and my white shirt, she nodded seriously: "Hello, I am mom!"

This extremely gentlemanly courier was stunned for a few seconds, and then handed over the order. , suppressing laughter, and asked in a changed voice: "Please don't initial it!" My daughter neatly signed my name and solemnly presented it with both hands: "Thank you for your hard work!"

< p> The courier picked up the bag and staggered out of the door. Immediately afterwards, a burst of laughter broke out in the corridor. I stood in front of the window and watched him laugh and get on his electric bike and drive off into the distance. It's snowing heavily outside and the wind is very cold. Laughing heartily like this will make this young man warmer!

At this time, the child waved to me and shook his pigtails slyly: "Ha! I secretly put the bag of rainbow candies in the courier brother's bag! It's not cold to eat candies on a snowy day. You said it!" I smiled and reached out to grab her pigtails, but the little thing escaped easily.

I have a small house and a small child. Even if there is no spring breeze, there are still flowers blooming; even if there is no summer rain, there are still rainbows. Snow is falling outside the window, but inside the window, my roses are fragrant. With you, I am not afraid of growing old.