Archive of Our Own ^beta

Krolia was a stubborn woman. A very stubborn woman. She had opinions she formed when she was five that have stayed opinions in her now late twenties. It took a lot for anything she thought to change.

One thing she was certain of was that she hated kids.

They were loud, expensive, smelly, and cry all the time. Who would want a child?

When she was little, she scoffed and turned her nose when she saw someone with a newborn and then her mother would slap her hand and hiss out, “Vedi syebya khorosho, Kateryna...!”

And then she’d cross her arms and keep walking with her mama with a pout.

Even in her adult life, she had to keep herself from scrunching her face up when a child was wailing in a supermarket and she’d awkwardly ignore the scene.

The point is...

She hated kids.

...

Then she had a kid.

-

It was an early morning, the Texas sun beaming through the window and she blasted the AC, because no thanks. She may have moved here from Ukraine when she was only ten, but she could never acclimate to the burning temperature. Anytime the AC broke, she was right on her husband’s ass to fix it, and being the kind man he was, he did as soon as humanly possible (maybe a bit out of fear).

She sat on her favorite rocking chair, reading a book that Tex recommended she had become invested in when she heard familiar little pitter patters make their way down the hallway. At the sound, she paused and bookmarked her page, already knowing what to expect.

Sure enough, right on cue, the face she grew to love so much was right in front of her.

In a little voice, her toddler chirped, “Mama! Mama!” He looked up through his fluffy black bangs, his chubby cheeks impossibly squishy and his big purple eyes staring back up at her. He was in a part of blue overalls with white stripes and a baggy sweater that looked way too cute.

Smiling warmly, she reached out and ran a hand through his hair, “Yes, malysh?” she asked, lifting him under his armpits and placing him on her lap.

Keith cuddled into her, tucking himself right between her neck and clavicle area. “I want syrniki, mama,” He requested sweetly. As if his chubby cheeks needed to get any chubbier.

But Krolia was the worst enabler.

She hummed playfully and rubbed his back, “I don’t know...” Then heard him quietly whine, “I suppose I can if you ask in Russian,” She tried to get him to learn whenever he could because it was an important part of his identity and hers... and also because it was cute when he spoke Russian.

He made a shy noise quietly and buried his face in her neck. He always got shy speaking Russian since he wasn’t very confident yet. “Y-ya khochu...” He started quietly, his American accent heavy but she didn’t care.

She held him closely and said, “You’re doing great, kotyonok. Can you say the rest for mama?” Krolia kept her voice soft and encouraging, a voice only for her baby.

Hesitantly, he stumbled over his words but said in his little three-year-old voice, “Ya kh-khochu syrniki, mama...” His voice was uncertain, but that was okay; he was still learning, and Russian was quite possibly one of the hardest languages.

Happily, she raised him up and looked up at him with a happy grin, “That’s my good, smart boy! Mama is so proud of you!” She brought his face close and nuzzled their noses and cheeks together.

Keith squeaked and giggled before his chubby hands reached out and held her face, “Yay mama!” Which was a speech quirk he said anytime he did something right and it was downright adorable.

Humming, she stood up and supported his bum and little back, walking towards the kitchen, “Yay mama is right, malysh,” She replied, kissing his forehead and he snuggled into her.

Soon, they made it to their kitchen. There were hints of all the family’s culture in it—her husband's dolsot sitting in its holder, a few handmade and painted wooden Texas flags and grilling books, her mug with a Ukrainian flag along with her kitchen scale (“It’s more accurate, Tex!), and pictures of Keith everywhere. It was homey and just right...

Carefully, she placed her three-year-old on the counter, trusting him after one too many scoldings of “Bud' ostorozhen!” which Keith didn’t understand, but he knew his mother’s tone and held still.

Smiling softly, she went to the rustic cabinet and pulled out flour and sugar, then went to the fridge and took out eggs and tvorog. Keith looked at her excitedly, kicking his little legs as she started to make his favorite breakfast.

She retrieved the mixing bowl and fork, then put the (15% fat of course) tvorog in before turning to Keith. “Kotyonok, do you wanna help mama mix this?” She could tell Keith was antsy and wanted to help.

Keith nodded quickly and took the fork—crumbling the syrniki was his job, “Da, mama!” He exclaimed before uncoordinatingly using the fork to poorly mash the white cheese up. His little hands probably got into the soon-to-be batter too and she was starting to wish she made him wash them but oh well, babies had germs.

Patting his head, she acknowledged his work and said, “Very good, Malysh, molodyts,” Her heart was swelling up with how much she loved Keith—he was so perfect in every way and just the sweetest. She felt so lucky.

He giggled and soon it was roughly crumbled, some parts still clumpy but she didn’t go in to fix it lest wanting to discourage him. “Did it! Molo-yets!” He attempted to say which made her giggle.

“No, baby, it’s mol-o-dyts,” She bent down so he could watch her mouth and said it slowly and he nodded.

Mirroring in smally, he tried to mimic, “Mole-o-dets,” With an American accent.

Smiling, she kissed his head and said, “Close enough, ochen molodyts, kotyonok,” And he smiled proudly, reaching down to grab his little socks. Fondly, she grabbed his tiny hands and said, “No, no. No feet during food,” She chided lightly.

He nodded guilty and said, “Sorry, mama...” With the upmost shame. But she just shook her head and kissed his head a few times and he giggled.

They went back to making breakfast together, it taking slower with a toddler who wanted to help but she didn’t care. This was never about it being fast; it was about her spending time with her baby.

Together, they made the batter, her cracking the eggs in and Keith stirring; Krolia adding the sugar and Keith mashing it in; her adding the flour and Keith mixing again, getting his little hands powdery before they had the batter.

She turned her back and grabbed a plate that had a blue and white pattern before putting some flour on and instructed Keith, “Okay, malysh. Mama is going to make these into syrniki and then you put them in the flour, okay?”

Quickly, he nodded and held his little hands out eagerly. So cute.

With great practice, she formed the pucks and handed each to her son, watching him have fun flipping and padding the flour in, getting some on his clothes and counter. Krolia’s heart was oozing with love and if she wasn’t so stone faced, she’d probably be crying. Oh, she loved him so much...

Softly, she complimented him again, “Otlichno! Just like that, good job,” Giving a few little claps and watched him giggle and squeak, putting flour on the syrniki more enthusiastically which made a bigger mess, but that could be cleaned.

Smiling to herself, she bent over and reached into the cupboard and pulled out a frying pan, putting it on the gas stove and adding sunflower oil. Krolia looked back at Keith and saw that all his pucks were formed and hummed, “Are you excited for syrniki?” She asked, even though she knew the answer.

He clapped his hands together and looked at her with wide happy eyes, “Yes, mama!” Flour going into the air.

Krolia laughed and reassured him, “It’s almost done...” Before hovering her hand over the pan and feeling the heat. She could kiss her husband for getting a gas stove (which she will when he gets home). “Hand me a syrniki, please, dai mnye syrniki, pozhalustya,” She repeated in Russian for some passive learning.

Nodding quickly, he handed them one by one until they were all stuffed into the pan, sizzling and fried savory sweetness in the air that made them both exhale in delight. It was a dish they could never get tired of.

While it cooked, she picked Keith up and wrapped her arms under his armpits and around his chest, the rest of him dangling. “You know, kotyonok... Mama used to eat this all the time in Kharkiv... I’d go to my Babushka’s house and help her make it and I’d stuff some extra in my pocket and tried to eat it when no one was looking...” She made a cheeky face.

Keith looked up at her with his little face and squealed in delight, “Silly mama!” He wiggled around and she hoisted him up, so he was more comfortable.

Laughing lightly, she rested her cheek against his head and replied, “Very silly mama...” Before grabbing the spatula and flipping the syrniki, hearing the searing sound and seeing the person golden brown. Keith jolted at the sound of the oil (he didn’t like it very much) but she bounced and shushed him until he calmed down.

They sat in silence for a bit before Keith curiously asked, “Mama...?” Feeling his little hands play with the hair he could reach.

Swaying him a bit, she asked back, “Yes, malysh...?” She could listen to his voice all day...

His voice came out in a little stumble, “I-I make good syrniki...? Like small you...?” He sounded uncertain but hopeful.

A wide smile spread on her face, and she pulled back a bit and brought their foreheads together, “You make the best syrniki, malysh... Mama’s favorite...” Her voice had the upmost confidence and love as she closed her eyes.

He held onto her shirt and asked with enthusiasm, “Favewit?!” He squeaked.

Easily, she nodded and kissed his forehead, “My favorite... Mama’s little helper,” Her voice was soft, her words being placed in front of his bangs and hopefully reaching his heart of absolute gold.

His little feet kicked happily and surely enough, he chirped, “Yay mama!”

Krolia didn’t know you could love something so much...

Soon, she sat him back down on the counter and plated up the syrniki that looked perfect. She carried the syrniki and Keith to the table, placing him on the big boy chair (which he was very proud of by the way), before walking back to the kitchen and grabbing sour cream.

Sitting down herself, she watched Keith bounce in his chair and eye the syrniki and sour cream before asking, “Mama-- I hungwy!” As if she needed to be told twice.

Snorting, she ruffled his hair and said, “I know—do you want sour cream?” She waved it in front of him, and he nodded, “How do you say sour cream in Russian?” She quizzed. Every moment was a learning moment, even breakfast (which Tex did not have fun with like Keith).

To her surprise and pride, he easily said, “Smetana!” Then pulled himself up to try and reach for the sour cream.

Quickly, she gently pushed him back and said, “No no, no climbing the table,” And he made a sad little face, but she pinched his nose, “But good job, it is smetana. So smarttt,” She cooed.

He squealed and kicked his feet, the sound hitting the wooden table and his smile already photographed into her memory.

Krolia plated some sour cream onto his plate and gave him a few syrniki and he could hardly stay still before he reached his pudgy hands to his plate and dragged a syrnik through the sour cream before stuffing it into his mouth. His little chubby cheeks puffed up as he ate and he made happy sounds through his closed mouth.

Her eyes softened and she ran a hand through his hair, “Is it good?” She asked.

Instantly, he nodded and ate another before swallowing, “Uh huh! Yes!” His little tummy couldn’t get enough of his favorite food (besides BBQ).

Krolia ate her own syrniki, but kept looking back at her son the whole time. She can’t believe her and her husband made this little person—he was so perfect and made her so happy and she made him. “Well, you made that, Keith. That’s your syrniki,”

Keith blushed and flailed his hands, “Yay mama!” He exclaimed.

Softly, she quietly said back, “That’s right, kotyonok...” And enjoyed the rest of her breakfast with her son...

It was safe to say: her opinion on kids did change. At least for her own. She couldn’t love anything more than her baby.