My friend once told me a story from her childhood.
Her mother was anxious — the kind of woman whose whole focus revolved around her child (meaning, my friend). Everything was about the child. No one was allowed to say or do anything that might disturb the “balance.”
She, however, could scold her daughter, discipline her with the occasional slap or punishment that my friend considered, back then, completely unfair.
Now, judging by the stories she tells me, I honestly wonder how she could even sit down — or how she didn’t already have a “scheduled spanking hour” built into her daily routine.
Just so you get an idea of what her childhood was like: her father would approve any crazy idea she had, and her mother was usually the one cleaning up the consequences.
One example: her father thought it would be a brilliant idea to attend his daughter’s first figure-skating show — which took place, fully equipped with proper moves and enthusiasm, on the living room carpet.
When her mother came home after the “show” (because otherwise, the show wouldn’t have happened at all), she found the carpet shredded to pieces and had to drag it to the dumpster. Then, of course, came the punishments — evenly distributed between husband and child.
And staying in the winter sports theme, this time with sledding — her father once told her, quite seriously:
“When you go down the hill, never let go of the sled.”
The result? She didn’t let go of the sled — but she did let go of a few front teeth. Not that it mattered much, since she was going to lose them anyway… along with a scraped nose and a split lip.
How her father managed to explain all that to his wife when they got home — only he knows. But we can safely assume he got his share of scolding too.
And, to be fair, we can’t blame only the father. Let’s bring the grandmother into the picture — the mother’s mother. She wasn’t what you’d expect — not a more anxious version of her daughter — but rather a calmer, gentler type. Still, even she wasn’t safe if she didn’t follow her daughter’s parenting instructions to the letter.
And here’s where I’ll let my friend take over the story:
“My mother has been anxious for as long as I can remember. One of her biggest fears was earthquakes. Because of that, she chose for us to live on one of the lowest floors possible, and even took a job in a building that only had a ground floor and one upper floor.
One of her recurring nightmares was being trapped during an earthquake in the basement of the mall. She couldn’t even hear the name of that place without shuddering.
Well… she never got to experience what an earthquake feels like in the basement of a mall — but I did.
One day, while Mom was at work, Grandma decided she really needed a new headscarf. So she took me with her, straight to the mall — and, of course, to the basement level. While Grandma was trying on scarves, the floor began to shake.
Earthquake.
Grandma grabbed my hand and we started running toward the escalators, together with a wave of panicked people. The mall was roaring, glass was clinking, people were shouting and pushing. In the chaos, I tripped and hit my teeth on the stairs.
Grandma pulled me up without even looking, and somehow we made it outside. When we finally got out — surprise: my mouth was full of blood.
Grandma panicked. She asked a lady nearby for some tissues. The woman not only gave us tissues but also handed me a handful of cherries — “so you’ll stop crying.”
We walked back to the little park near our building. We sat on a bench. The neighbors had all come outside. Nobody seemed too shocked about the earthquake anymore — they were more focused on… my two broken front teeth.
Aftershocks began, but they were nothing compared to what came next.
A woman came running through the park, wild-eyed, scanning every direction. It was my mom. She spotted us and rushed over, sweaty and disheveled, panic all over her face. She asked if we were okay, if the earthquake had caught us at home.
And then Grandma, calm as ever, confessed:
“We were at the mall… I was trying on a scarf.”
That’s when Mom grabbed her purse by the handle and swung it at Grandma, hitting her a few times and yelling:
“A scarf?! You needed a scarf instead of watching the child?!”
We all knew to be afraid of Mom. Dad would always whisper to me, conspiratorially, ‘Don’t tell your mother what we did today.’ And somehow, to me, Dad was the coolest dad ever. And in his own way, he really was — though he stayed just as cool even after we lost Mom, when I was still a kid.
That’s when I realized how much she’d been holding everything together — because suddenly, I had to grow up fast to make up for his immaturity.
You’ve already heard from my friend about the oven he insisted we unplug whenever we weren’t using it. I’ll tell you in another post how many times he hit the car, and how — like in that old joke — whenever there’s a football or tennis match on TV, I step out on the balcony… so the neighbors don’t think we’re fighting.”