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saybwee · 7 years

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My story - Childhood

As I threatened last night, it’s time to tell my story. My memory is horrible for my early years, so there may be a lot I forget, but onwards! My life starts as most do, with being born. In Greenville, South Carolina, the hospital was closing, but that’s where my mother was taken to have me. They clocked my birth according to my dad’s watch cause the clock had already been removed from the room and none of the doctors or nurses were wearing watches. It was 1:58 pm, April 14th, 1983.

About a year later, my parents moved to be closer to theirs, and Ladson, SC is where we moved. It was a mobile home, I believe, a small walk away from where my mother’s parents lived, on a large-ish piece of land.

I don’t remember much about that time of my life. I know my grandfather grew big round sweet grapes in his yard. I remember being on someone’s shoulders, looking up and seeing the moon bigger than I ever had before, like I could reach out and touch it. One time I got in big trouble because I walked over to my grandparents’ place by myself to visit them without telling my parents. They stomped me home and put me into the corner. I remember crying because I had no idea what I’d done had been wrong. I remember being sat on the couch with my cousin (son of my dad’s sister), then having him walk and stomp all over me with his shoes. I remember making my mom rescue an earthworm that was in an ant hill and being swarmed. Not much else.

When we moved from that house, I was about 5, and my mom took a video of the place, our house and my grandparents’. I was with her most of the time, (and because at this point I’ve seen that stupid video 3264754736 times, which included every time I brought a significant other to meet them, and during my dad’s drunken rewatches because he misses when I was little and not a disappointment to everyone in the family), I also know that at that point my mom’s younger sister and brother were living at my grandparents’ place at the time as well.

We moved into another mobile home, this time in a relatively well-kept trailer park. While I attended kindergarten and elementary school, I was eager in school and worked hard to make my parents proud, though I was always a teacher’s pet, quiet, chubby, and so got made fun of quite a bit by other kids. I guess I brought it somewhat on myself. I remember my first kindergarten friend, M, and I running around on all fours outside during recess, pretending to be animals. Eventually my parents made me stop hanging out with her, because they thought she was a bad influence. She told my parents when she stayed over one night that she was a witch or something, and because “she was a liar” she was forcibly removed as a friend.

Eventually I made a friend on my street named K. K lived with her brother and her mom who had divorced, and eventually her mom’s new husband moved in. They were a really nice family, though I honestly had more fun hanging out with K’s little brother than I did with her (I preferred his K’nex and liking to pretend to be dinosaurs over the contemporary christian music and dolls my other friend liked to play with. This caused a lot of fights, but we tended to make up and spend time together anyway.)

When I went to middle school, I was bullied. A group of kids would make fun of me, steal my tests and cheat when the teacher wasn’t looking, and in general harassed and intimidated me, though I don’t think they were ever violent. I asked my mom to put me in a private school to get away from the bullying. She didn’t, but my dad did go to the school to complain. I was sent to the office, then in walked the girls that had been harassing me, all staring me down with horrible angry looks while the (counselor, I think) basically told them to lay off of me. I think the bullying got a bit worse before I got better. Every move I did, even as simply as pulling my pants up a bit cause they were sliding down, was scrutinized and made fun of. I learned to hate and fear those quiet voices that always ended in stares and giggles.

In 4th grade I graded high enough on a placement test that I was put in a gifted and talented program. Because of this, my parents kept raising the bar of what they thought were acceptable grades and behavior. Anything below an A after this point was met with disappointment, angry words, and sometimes yelling. (You can imagine what happened when I failed a math class in high school, heh).

Around this time I had made a couple more friends on my street. One birthday my parents gifted me with a wooden playhouse that they’d built, about the size of a smallish shed, with a little table and chairs inside, a door, and a window. I have no idea how it happened, or who started it, but I guess when I was around 11 some friends and I started playing Truth or Dare and strip Uno in the playhouse. It lasted a good number of months, Eventually one kid ran out, opening his big mouth about what had happened, loud enough for his dad to hear. We all got in trouble, and grounded by our respective parents, but I was grounded for a month whereas the others were outside and playing after a week or so. This was after my dad had yelled at me and hit my arm repeatedly and told me I was a sorry, stupid person, and who knows what else. My mom had to grab me and take me to the car and drive around to give him time to cool off, all the while basically telling me not to be a slut like my dad’s sister. So yeah, great family bonding.

Also in this time, if I ever complained that I missed the dogs my parents kept adopting and giving away when they had behavior issues, I was yelled at, though I did have some wonderful pets when I was growing up. Prina, the first cat I picked out at the SPCA, basically turned into my guardian, following me around when I’d play outside, or walking me to or from where the bus picked me up or dropped me off. Magick, a tiny fluffy kitten found under our neighbor’s car, became our second cat, though my dad resisted for the longest time, not being very fond of cats. I also had a hamster or two, a hedgehog (we gave him away when he bit the crap out of my hand and wouldn’t let go and I was too afraid to handle him after that) and temporarily adopted frogs and lizards (even a turtle once, from my grandparents’ pool) in jars or boxes that I would observe and release the next day. My dad eventually brought home a pomeranian puppy that my mom fell in love with. It essentially became her dog though, as it didn’t seem to like being around me much.

This is also when I remember my dad’s drinking becoming a problem. I told my mom I kept seeing him drink and trying to hide it, and she suggested I talk to him about it. When I did, my dad called me a liar and made me wait on the couch for hours until my mother came home so he could “tell her what I did”? I don’t remember his reasons, I just remember apologizing a lot and changing my story that I didn’t see anything. I was scared of him.

There was one time my dad wanted to take me to a Nascar race. I wanted his approval and his excitement was infectious, so I went. I was maybe 12 or 13. It was at Daytona Beach a few hours away. While we were driving, my dad started head-bobbing at the wheel, his eyes barely open, and the car was swerving. I yelled at him to stop the car and let me out, I was terrified. He managed to park at a gas station, and I got out and ran to a hotel that I could see from the car. I was crying so much... but the employees there were very nice, stuffed me full of donuts and let me use the phone to call my mom so she could come get me. According to my dad, while I was waiting for her to get me (about an hour and a half away or something), the police came and he was taken away in handcuffs. I'm not sure who called them, actually. Either way, on our way home, my mom and I stopped at a hardware store and got a new doorknob so my mom could change the lock. We got home, and my mom started changing the doorknob, and then my dad came in, in full rage mode, slamming the door open and smashing my mom in the head with the knob, and chasing me into my room where he proceeded to yell at me about what a stupid, selfish bitch I was and that he'd never been more humiliated in his entire life. He swore up and down he wasn't drunk though and they let him go?? The details aren't clear.

For a while my parents separated and after promising he wouldn’t drink anymore, and because I guess I was spending too much time on the internet after school and had other behavioral issues (jesus I wonder fucking why, maybe cause I was traumatized and couldn’t stand being around my parents? Who knows), my dad moved back in and began to drink again. My mother made excuses for him, and blamed me if I was upset because of my dad’s behavior, telling me not to let him rule my emotions.

There are times I remember seeing my drunk dad piss in the sink, walk around with his junk hanging out, stuff food in his face while standing at the fridge and making the most disgusting noises. He called me names while he was drunk, told me I was stupid and worthless. Drunk Dad was something I dealt with every night all through middle and high school, and two years after.

It wasn’t all bad though. Even though there were a lot of things my mom did that I felt were controlling, privacy-breaking or unfair, she made my birthdays awesome, throwing me big parties with some friends I’d made from school. My mom is good at making holidays and birthdays feel really special. She’s also good at being really nice sometimes and absolutely awful other times, but that’s a story for another day.

So we’ve made it, in a very convoluted and weird way, to my high school years, which I’ll get into in the next post. Thank you for reading my weirdness!

#personal #my story

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soccergirl112 · 7 years

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May 31st, 2017

My last day of nannying. I was with the same family for 4 years, 2 months, and 3 days. Naturally, I didn’t work every day. Only for 3-4 school days per week. Not usually over breaks, although I did babysit from time to time when he was younger. He’s 14 now, so he didn’t really need that anymore. I understand. But when I started, he was only 9. A couple weeks from being 10, but still. He wasn’t really supposed to be home by himself yet. Now, he can’t have enough alone time. And I get it. I’ve been there.

But just because I understand, doesn’t mean it isn’t hard. I am so fucking grateful that I had to work yesterday. If I hadn’t, I would sat at home, crying and shit all day. During a break from teaching, I wrote him a letter. 4 pages. 4 really sappy, emotional pages. I’m sure he was thrilled with how much I had for him to read. I did it, thinking it would hurt less if I could get a bunch of stuff down on the page. That maybe then, I would get it out of my system and I would be okay. Turns out, I was very wrong. But fuck it, it was worth a try.

I wrote about all the standard stuff. About how proud of him I am, about how I think of him like a brother. Gave him some very standard and cliché life advice, of course. I reminisced a little, because I couldn’t help myself. And I also told him that I would be checking in with him. To make sure that high school is going well, to find out how he’s doing. Not just because I’m completely incapable of saying goodbye and letting go, but because I feel like I have responsibilities with this kid now, and I have to make sure that he’s doing okay. He’s an only child like me, and I know that there were millions of times where I felt alone in high school. I always wished I had someone to lean on. My parents were very supportive, much like his are, but you don’t always want to tell them everything, I wrote down my contact information, even though I know he has it in his phone already, because I didn’t want him to have any excuses to not contact me if he needs me.

I just wish I had saved the rough draft. Or taken a picture, or something. It was pretty good. And I know I’ll forget most of what I wrote with time. I gave it to him right before I left. He said he may never see me again, I begged him to not say that (and also told him I was going to kidnap him sometimes and make him catch up with me over Slurpees or ice cream or anything he wants. But it’s definitely happening). We took a picture together because neither of his parents were home and she wanted the memory. He hugged me (for the first time since he was 9), and he walked me to the door for the last time. I made it into my car, and started sobbing as soon as I started to drive away. I went up one street and had to pull over so I could cry. And I proceeded to cry the entire way home. Tears streaming, breath staggered. I was a hot mess. Anyone driving next to me could tell, too. And you know what? I’m totally cool with that. I SHOULD have been a mess.

But this is a hard transition. I am so excited for him to go to high school, and I am so excited to see the kind of person he grows up to be- selfishly, I feel like I should get some credit for the content of his character. But there were a lot of memories that I didn’t put in the letter, because if I had, it would have taken me an entire day to write it, and it would have been 50 pages long instead of 4. Because typing is easier, and because I need to get it out of my system, and because I never pay attention to the number of followers that I have (although I imagine that it’s still at zero), I’m going to write some of them out here. Because they matter to me. This is for me. So here we go.

I remember the first day I drove him home. My car was still silver, and I didn’t even know how to open my trunk yet. His mom met me at the school, and I took him home, so I could use the carpool lane (I had only been to his house twice and didn’t entirely know the way yet). We made small talk on the way home. I asked him a million questions. Turned out, he played piano like me. We both loved Bruno Mars. His favorite subject at the time was English. I was an English major. Within about 2 weeks, we got more comfortable. He told me stories about what happened at school. I started learning the names of his friends. It was nice. I got him a Bruno Mars piano book for his 10th birthday, along with a package of Mike n Ikes because he told me once that they were his favorite candy. He loved it. He still has the book, and he’s played stuff from it for me many times in our years together, although he’s a bit past that level now.

I remember Mr. Blair. His English teacher, who was going to tutor him in the summer, got arrested for trying to meet up with a minor. Turned out, he had gotten caught in a chat room. The 12 year old he thought he had been talking to was a cop. My boy was questioned by the police the next day, along with many others in his class. Mr. Blair never touched him. But he still cried. I picked him up that day and took him to Rocket Fizz, a candy store down the street. Because that’s what we did every Friday (every Friday, he had exams in all of his classes. I took him to the candy store every week to celebrate getting through it. He had anxiety, so I tried to give him tips and help him all the time. I thought the reward would help his nerves. Over time, it did). We weren’t super close yet, but that was the first time I saw his mom cry.

I remember taking him to his karate lessons twice a week. We would sit in the Subway next door while he did his homework. He LOVED Subway back then. It’s all about Five Guys, Chipotle, and Togo’s now. But back then, he wanted Subway almost every time I picked him up. Sometimes we would sit by Starbuck’s because of the WiFi, but most of the time, we were there. At the same table. And we always did his math homework together. I still remember what his sandwich order was back then: turkey sandwich on wheat. No cheese. With lettuce, onions, olives, (sometimes peppers), mayo, and salt and pepper. He was just like me like that. He always ordered the same things. Each place we went to, he had “the usual.” I loved that about him. Anyways, his lessons were at 6. I would stay with him until warm ups, and then I got to go home. Sometimes I would sit with the parents and watch for a little while first. He was so cute and little. He usually wouldn’t acknowledge me once he was in the zone. But I didn’t care. He cared about it so much back then. He used to go to Baltimore for tournaments every summer.

I remember making special mix CDs for my car because I didn’t want him to hear swear words yet. The process of making CDs literally doubled because I would only put clean songs on there. He used to tell me all the time that his parents swore in front of him, but I wanted to protect him from that. I knew he would grow up and get into swearing eventually, just like I did. But I didn’t want to expose him too soon. His voice hadn’t even begun to change yet. He was still so young and perfect to me. Gradually, of course, this changed. By the end of our time together, we swore so comfortably around each other that you would have thought that we did it for years. But in reality, that only started several months before it was over. He used to sing with me in the car. We used to show each other music. I discovered Twenty One Pilots (and a couple hip-hop songs by various artists) because of him. He started listening to Panic! at the Disco and Imagine Dragons because of me. We always joked about how the other person’s taste in music was trash.

I remember sitting in my non-air conditioned car on way too many hot days. He wasn’t happy about it. Neither was I. But he took it like a champ and only ever complained a handful of times.

I remember going through a brief period after a really bad breakup when I thought to myself, “If anything ever happened to me.... if I was in the hospital dying for whatever reason, I think he’s the only one who would care.” Now, I never think that he’s the only one, but he means more to me than most other people do.

I remember when way too many people started asking us if I was his mom/sister/aunt/cousin whatever. We got tired of explaining that I was just the nanny, but I had been with the family for long enough that I was basically honorary family. We ended up just telling people that I was his big sister when strangers asked, because it was easier. Never mind the fact that he’s half-Japanese and half-Jewish, and I’m mostly of European heritage with some Native American and Indonesian sprinkled in.... but people thought we were related all the time. He used to laugh whenever people thought I was his mom. He would call me old. I said it was because he was super short. We stopped calling me his sister as he got older, but that went on for a long time.

I remember when I got in a car accident and needed a completely new hood. Then, most of my car was silver, and the entire hood was black. It was a spectacle. I was embarrassed every time I drove it. And that little guy told me how cool he thought it was when he saw my car for the first time after the repairs. What a little liar. But it was so sweet. My heart melted. I had gotten into the accident after dropping him off at a play practice on the edge of downtown. When my dad picked me up from the scene after the tow truck was squared out, I cried the whole way home. I was just so grateful that my boy hadn’t been in the car with me when it happened. I would have died.

I remember him asking me sex ed questions because his dad wasn’t really talking to him about sex yet, and he had missed sex ed at his school that year (he was super sick that week). It was very awkward, but I was touched that he trusted me enough to talk about it and ask thoughtful questions.

I remember him talking to be about school dances but refusing to talk to his parents about it. He was horrified every time his parents offered to chaperone. He wouldn’t even talk about the general details of the dance with his mom. His dad was allowed to drop him off, but he never wanted to talk details with anyone but me.

I remember when he bailed on his bike, and they thought he had a hairline fracture. He was going quickly down a hill, lost control, and slammed into the side of a boulder that was by the edge of a little park in his gated community. Luckily, people were at the park, so he got help with basic first aid right away. But it was at the very end of the year, and he had to wear a brace on his leg (he was supposed to go to an Airsoft camp that summer). He ended up being fine in time for camp, but he was heartbroken and so embarrassed after it happened. The parents said the wouldn’t need me that week, since he was home all day, was doing homework on his own, and didn’t have any appointments he needed rides to. Knowing I wasn’t needed, but feeling ridiculously sad and guilty for him, I drove the half hour to his house every day that week, just to hang out with him. I didn’t want him to feel alone. His mom tried to pay me for my time, but I couldn’t take it. He wasn’t a job to me. He was just my friend. My little brother.

I remember playing water games with him in the summer. We hit water balloons with a Wiffle Ball bat. I told him to not aim for my pants, since my phone was in my pocket. And naturally, he then started pelting water balloons at me. Including my pants. My phone was fine. I was kind of pissed right at first, but soon after that, we were chasing each other around the backyard with water balloons. I went home soaked that day. And it was awesome.

I remember his Bar Mitzvah. I remember him sitting in my car to get lessons from his Rabbi. I remember trying to help his mom plan and organize stuff. I will always remember showing up alone because my date bailed super last minute. But I will always remember how frigging amazing I looked that day, and how I sat up front with his family. I will remember how he looked at me during the ceremony and smiled. And even though he was already giving me a lot of sass by then, he told me how happy he was that I had been there for him. Especially since I went by myself. We all cried when his dad spoke during the ceremony. But it was beautiful.

I remember taking him to play practices, hair cuts, dentist appointments, and even one doctor appointment (I was borrowing one of his mom’s cars while mine was getting repaired).

I remember him losing a tooth in my car, right after I picked him up from school. It was one of his last baby teeth.

I remember him making himself gag trying to find pictures of people vomiting on the internet because he knew I got freaked out by it (talk about a backfire).

I remember telling him to run laps around his backyard once because he had had a soda and was wiggling too much to work on his homework.

I remember him coming to my mom’s summer camp for a week our second to last year in business. He was difficult, but we recovered well.

I remember getting Slurpees with him almost every day his 6th grade year and driving around with him everywhere, because he went to tutoring at 5:30 every day and we would kill time until then. We got a lot of time to talk. We got really close during that time.

I remember finally giving him some control over the music in my car- and how he quickly went mad with power.

I remember his brief obsession with Hamilton and how he begged me to play the music in my car for close to a month. And I let him, because even though he was more prone to being a brat by then, I was trying to encourage his love of music at any cost.

I remember all of the super dark jokes we would make together. How he used to make me laugh until I cried sometimes. Joking about death and hating me and everything in between. And I always had to explain it to people, because it sounds horrible when you actually say it. But we always knew. When I was in a bad mood, he always stopped. He went very close to the line sometimes, but he never crossed it.

I remember him trying to hard to make me mad so many times, and then being so salty when he was unsuccessful. Deep down, I think he was happy that I didn’t get mad easily.

I remember playing hide and seek at his school. Even though he was in middle school already. And the texts he would send with it when it was taking me forever to find him. And how much he cheated. Dork.

I remember taking him to the grocery store once, and being reminded of exactly how little he still is because he didn’t know how to find or pick out any of the produce he was looking for.

I remember him hating the colored contact lenses that I got. He never said anything super mean, but he said they made me look weird and that he liked my normal eyes better.

I remember him telling me that I had the cutest, littlest ears he had ever seen when he put his phone up to my ear so i could hear a song he was talking about.

I remember threatening that I would make him go into Ulta with me if he didn’t start to chill... and how that led to immediate behavior changes.

I remember talking him through arguments with his parents. Talking about life and deep things. Asking him about his future in a vague way that made it easy to talk about. About his interests. About whether he wants to have a family someday. About where he wants to go to college. And he asked me about mine, too. It was never just one-sided. And for that, I am very grateful.

I am grateful for his family. I am grateful for the memories I have written down, among the millions of others that I did not even begin to mention. 4 years is a very long time to know someone so closely. And my heart is broken, but I am so thankful for the times I got to spend with him. For the laughs, tears, and learning/teaching moments. Right now, I’m just holding onto his graduation next week. I need it. I need to know I have it. That this wasn’t the last time that I’ll see him.

He will be my little brother forever. And you know something? That feeling isn’t going to go away. Not now, not ever. I love him. And while I feel super lame for being so upset (when I knew this was coming), it’s healthy. I’m grieving. Just because I won’t be picking him up from school anymore (at least, not consistently) doesn’t mean that I won’t see him anymore. I’m going to make it work. It hurts like a bitch right now, but it will be okay. We may not see each other as often, but we will still grow together.

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