Like a sudden summer storm, time rushes in without warning—one moment, your child is small enough to cradle, the next, their sneakers dwarf your own. This truth struck singer Sergey Zhukov as he penned a birthday note to his 15-year-old son, Angel: "You’re still so young, so wide-eyed, yet those size 44 shoes of yours drag up a strange, sweet melancholy in your mother and me." The words linger like honey dissolving in tea—part warmth, part ache.
Parenthood, Zhukov muses, is less a role than a full-time excavation of the soul. Between raising Angel and his four siblings—Nika, Miron, Evan, and another—the singer admits the job demands the patience of a monk and the stamina of a marathon runner.
he reflects,
His household runs on unspoken rules: no venomous arguments, no scorched-earth insults—especially not within earshot of little listeners. "Words are like feathers in a hurricane," Zhukov says. "Once scattered, you’ll never gather them all back."
Through it all, Zhukov clings to one truth: children grow like weeds after rain—relentless, inevitable. But in a parent’s heart, they remain forever small enough to hold. Even when their shoes could double as canoes.
