to laugh because Mom will think Iâm crazy, and Grandma that Iâm malicious. Craziness and malice are strictly forbidden in our house. Great unhappiness is born from malice; malicious children put their parents in old folksâ homes, never thinking that they themselves will one day get old and that their children might bundle them off to old folksâ homes too; Grandma and Mom were scared of malice and craziness because they were born oldand with fears I donât understand, but I knew one day Iâd have my turn; itâll happen the day they say Iâm a grown-up, the day I run when I first meet someone whoâs crazy, because craziness is infectious, just like all the sicknesses and misfortune in this city. When you grow up and have your own house and your own children, then you can do whatever you like. But in my house you wonât . Grandma loved the little slant-eyed mothers and pretended she understood them.
I get really careful in the run-up to special occasions like New Yearâs Eve and my birthday. I donât even laugh when Iâm on my own; I keep my mouth shut like the angels on Grandmaâs postcards, and I squint to see if Iâve already grown wings or if I still need to wait a bit. I never know what those two are going to get me for my birthday or New Yearâs, only that Grandmaâs presents are always better. She buys me books â encyclopedias and picture books â and Mom always gets me practical stuff. Practical stuff is stuff that they were going to have to buy anyway, but instead of just getting on with it without all the pomp, they wait for special occasions and give them to you all wrapped up in shiny wrapping and expect you to get excited. But who can get excited about socks, undies, undershirts, and winter slippers? Mom expects me to get excited about her presents. If I donât, it means Iâm malicious. Thereâs no such thing as everyday stuff for her, not even socks, everythingâs a special treat, you have to earn everything in life, you have to bust your gut. If you listened to her youâd think humanity would go naked and barefoot if everyone told their mother that undershirts and slippersdonât cut it as birthday presents. But I pretend to be excited about her presents because if I donât she gets angry and starts with the nurturing stuff. When she cranks up the nurture rant itâs much worse than when she gets a migraine. Momâs kind of nurturing is out of books called You and Your Child and Your Child Is a Personality . She bought them from a traveling salesman, spent a month reading them, and then decided to put her foot down about my nurturing. Luckily she doesnât have time to stick at it, so unless I remind her, she totally forgets the whole thing. Nurturing amounts to Mom screwing up her face and repeating the same sentence ten times, wanting something from me without ever actually saying what it is. The less I understand, the happier she is because then she thinks sheâs being strict, and no strictness means no nurture. For me strict nurturing involves keeping your mouth shut, saying yes , nodding your head and not asking any questions because thereâs nothing to ask because you donât understand anything.
For special occasions Dad gives me model railway, motorway, city, and chemistry sets, all with thousands of little pieces. Then we sit down on the living-room floor and open the box. Dad puts his serious face on and starts scratching behind his ear, spreading the thousands of little pieces out on the rug. I watch him and heâs as funny as the little slant-eyed mothers, and he gives me a nod that says trust me and starts putting the thousands of little railway pieces together. He knows what heâs doing, and I like watching him put it together much more than I like the railway itself. Mom thinks he likes this stuff so much becausewhen he was a boy they didnât buy him toys, so he
I get really careful in the run-up to special occasions like New Yearâs Eve and my birthday. I donât even laugh when Iâm on my own; I keep my mouth shut like the angels on Grandmaâs postcards, and I squint to see if Iâve already grown wings or if I still need to wait a bit. I never know what those two are going to get me for my birthday or New Yearâs, only that Grandmaâs presents are always better. She buys me books â encyclopedias and picture books â and Mom always gets me practical stuff. Practical stuff is stuff that they were going to have to buy anyway, but instead of just getting on with it without all the pomp, they wait for special occasions and give them to you all wrapped up in shiny wrapping and expect you to get excited. But who can get excited about socks, undies, undershirts, and winter slippers? Mom expects me to get excited about her presents. If I donât, it means Iâm malicious. Thereâs no such thing as everyday stuff for her, not even socks, everythingâs a special treat, you have to earn everything in life, you have to bust your gut. If you listened to her youâd think humanity would go naked and barefoot if everyone told their mother that undershirts and slippersdonât cut it as birthday presents. But I pretend to be excited about her presents because if I donât she gets angry and starts with the nurturing stuff. When she cranks up the nurture rant itâs much worse than when she gets a migraine. Momâs kind of nurturing is out of books called You and Your Child and Your Child Is a Personality . She bought them from a traveling salesman, spent a month reading them, and then decided to put her foot down about my nurturing. Luckily she doesnât have time to stick at it, so unless I remind her, she totally forgets the whole thing. Nurturing amounts to Mom screwing up her face and repeating the same sentence ten times, wanting something from me without ever actually saying what it is. The less I understand, the happier she is because then she thinks sheâs being strict, and no strictness means no nurture. For me strict nurturing involves keeping your mouth shut, saying yes , nodding your head and not asking any questions because thereâs nothing to ask because you donât understand anything.
For special occasions Dad gives me model railway, motorway, city, and chemistry sets, all with thousands of little pieces. Then we sit down on the living-room floor and open the box. Dad puts his serious face on and starts scratching behind his ear, spreading the thousands of little pieces out on the rug. I watch him and heâs as funny as the little slant-eyed mothers, and he gives me a nod that says trust me and starts putting the thousands of little railway pieces together. He knows what heâs doing, and I like watching him put it together much more than I like the railway itself. Mom thinks he likes this stuff so much becausewhen he was a boy they didnât buy him toys, so he
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