Warning: this post explains in detail how horrible of a child I was. All stories were told to me by my mom over and over and to other people. If you know me in person then she probably told you about them too or to any other member of your family that know her! I just find them to be hilariously funny! Enjoy!
Every time my mom remembers the past when we were kids, she just mentions me and the horrible things I did when I was little. I feel like I was such a wild rebellious child and my mom kept trying to tame me to be a good girl. I was an angel as a teenager, a marvelous young adult, and now, I am the crazy one that my mom wasn’t able to tame at critical points in my life. What she means that she wanted to tame me forever. That way I would have ended up the way she wanted, a carbon copy of her self. I think she keeps telling me the stories of how horrible I was when I was little because she thinks I never changed, and my behaviour as a child was the reason of why I ended up the way I am today. I love my mom, but she doesn’t understand the concept of individuality.
She begins with the story of me being a toddler and how I didn’t deserve furniture or toys. She starts by saying, “you broke your crib when you were only one! You just wanted to get out and you broke a wooden crib!” I keep asking her, “was it made of real wood?” Then she switches the subject and says, “I used to buy you really expensive toys, and all you did was brake them or torture them! I bought you a brand new doll. So pretty when you were about one. What did you do it within the first and only 10 minutes of its life? You broke the head off!” I then say, “mom. Did the doll have more hair than me? I must have been extremely jealous and the only way to get rid of my competition is to take its head off!”
Then she keeps going on and on about my terrible twos. I think that’s when my mom’s smoking habit became excessive. My mom smoked right after I was born for about 14 years, until she had to quit cause she got pregnant with my sister. Thank God she quit. I hate the smell of smoke that I gag! So she reiterates the same story over and over like I am the anti-Christ to her beloved positions. One day she got an expensive bottle of perfume as a gift. It was the old style bottle where you open the top and use a long glass tube to sprinkle drops on your hands or clothes or wherever. With an angry tone she says, “when you were two you took my expensive bottle of perfume, opened it and spilled it all over the carpet! The carpet and my bedroom smelled like that perfume for months!” I keep saying, “ever lasting scented room. No need to light up scented candles all the time.”
She then goes on about my hospital emergency visits. How horrible I was and how much time she wasted removing objects from my body! She keeps saying, “you were almost three years old and you took two pearl like beads. Not one! Two of them and you shoved it up your nose! I had to take you to emergency or you would have suffocated to death.” I keep saying, “aaah I remember the big bright lights on my face and two doctors with the tweezers. Good times. Good times. No wonder I am half blind and I can’t stand too much light that my eyes water all the time!” Later in the same time frame, my mom keeps telling me how crazy and suicidal I was at three! She keeps saying that she found me dozed off in the corner with an empty box of kid’s Panadol (kid’s pain medicine) that was pink and tasted like cherry. That I swallowed the entire box and had to take me to emergency to get my stomach pumped / cleaned from all the crazy amount of pills I took. I then ask her, “why were the pills in a spot where I can reach them?” She then gets mad and says, “they were not! But all you ever did when you were little was play a detective and search in every drawer in the house. Even if it was high up where you can’t reach, you moved a chair and climbed up high!” I then say, “no wonder why I am not afraid of heights!”
Within the same year, I was three and a half years old. My mom couldn’t stand me being in the house anymore and wanted to get rid of me for at least half the day. She then tried to register me to junior kindergarten, but the school kept refusing. The school tried in any way possible to find an excuse of not letting me in. My mom kept telling them, “just give her a test! Any test. English, Arabic, or numbers. Anything because she knows it all!” The school administration got so frustrated and resorted to the last method they can think of. They gave me a 1st grade test. It was 2 years ahead of my time. I passed it and they were forced to take me. My mom obviously was happy and she blamed it on my addiction to television and talking too much.
However, going to school was my freedom. For a young child, it was the ULTIMATE form of freedom. At the first day of junior kindergarten where many children cry or scream missing their mommies, I was happy beyond belief! As the day ended, my mom came to pick me up. That’s when I realized that this was just a temporary form of freedom. I was going to be returned to the house full of drawers! Mom kept begging and pleading for me to go with her. The teacher begged me to go home. Everyone else left. I kept saying, “no,” and just sat there drawing. The teacher then said, “you will come back tomorrow and every day from now on.” With my wide eyes and a breath of excitement I said, “really!” She said, “yes. Time to go home now!” My mom just keeps saying how I embarrassed her in front of the teachers of my refusal to leave the classroom. It was even impossible to drag me out.
That’s why I had perfect attendance from junior kindergarten to grade 13. Anyone out there who has the same record as me? Yes, I did grade 13 here in Canada. Only Canada would have such a system!
Anyways, my mom keeps telling me these stories and also how I didn’t deserve Barbie dolls because all I did was chop their hair off, and then I keep wondering why I never wanted to stay home or keep anything the way it was!