Maria R. (LII) — Order and Autonomy

Kindergarten Anxieties and the Friday Incident

When I was first taken to kindergarten, it was scary and confusing. I remember my cold hands, the smell of cocoa, having no appetite, and feeling slightly nauseous. I would make friends with someone who was quieter and more modest than me, while the more active kids would approach me themselves. I watched what others were doing and started doing the same, fitting into the system, and after that, everything was fine. Kindergarten became interesting; I socialized and played.

I had an agreement with my parents that they would pick me up at 4:00 PM. I would sit and watch the clock—if they were late, fear and tears kicked in, thinking they might abandon me or not come. I loved it when my mom picked me up.

Once, on a Friday, my dad came for me. I told him I wouldn't go with him because I didn't want to ruin my Friday mood, and that I would wait for mom. Later, mom arrived by chance, just in case, picked me up, and said she might not have come at all since she thought dad would take me. After that, I thought about it, got scared that I could have been left at the kindergarten entirely, and decided that acting this way was dangerous.

The School Trial Day and Academic Independence

When I went for a trial day at school, we were seated at desks, and the teacher began explaining something. I couldn't understand what she was saying or what needed to be done because it was all new to me, a first time. To fully understand, I either had to ask the teacher—but I was too shy—or ask the other kids, but I didn't know them yet. In the end, I left all my textbooks on the desk in the classroom and went out to my mom. I decided to tell her about it because doubts about the correctness of my actions were creeping in. Mom got angry, said I didn't understand anything, called me some name, and we went back to the classroom.

There, all the desks were empty except mine; the teacher was surprised that I hadn't taken the books. Mom scolded me, and I felt ashamed that I had done something wrong and hadn't understood anything. Later, this never happened again; I understood everything normally, and if needed, I would ask the teacher during recess or my classmates.

I was sick very often and stayed home. I always did my homework. Missing classes, I studied on my own, solved problems, worked through examples, and read literature texts in the textbook, skipping ahead. No one forced me; it was interesting and somehow pleasant that I had already done everything in advance, that I knew how and was capable. I could study and read even with a fever.

The Struggle with Rote Memorization

I really disliked memorizing poems; it depressed and irritated me because they wouldn't stick after just one reading. I had to painstakingly memorize them, which was pure torture. I hate learning or cramming things I don't understand. If you understand something, you don't need to memorize it—it sticks on its own, you already know it, and you can explain it.

In poems, it was often hard for me to grasp the meaning, so my visual memory saved me—how and where words were located on the page, and some images with pictures stuck in my mind.

Playing School and the Need for Order

I dreamed of becoming a math teacher. My favorite game was playing school. Sometimes I conducted lessons in front of an empty audience, copying the teachers and teaching various subjects; sometimes I set up desks and seated dolls on a large table. They had signed, tiny notebooks for math and Russian. First, I wrote in them myself—sometimes correctly, sometimes intentionally with mistakes—then I checked them and graded them with a red pen. I entered the grades into a logbook. A chalkboard hung in front of my table, where I wrote with chalk while conducting lessons.

Sometimes I involved my grandmother in this game. She had notebooks too; I was the teacher, explaining the material to her, and she wrote in the notebooks. I gave her grades and scolded her if her handwriting wasn't up to par. She tried her best. True, sometimes during the explanation, grandmother would correct me or add something, which made me very angry and I would scream. "I am the smartest, I do everything right, everyone should shut up and agree with me"—otherwise, it caused intense irritation. I could throw books, toys, tear at the dolls, scream, stamp my feet, and rip up paper. Afterward, I would feel sorry for the dolls and stroke them. It felt like I loved them even more after the beating than before.

Grandmother's Room and Creative Freedom

My grandmother always spent a lot of time with me. We read, played with dolls, building blocks, and board games. I was very happy about this and loved it when she was in a good mood. When she felt unwell and stayed in bed, I played right next to her on her bed.

I also loved being alone, especially in her room, because it was messy. I could play however I wanted: scatter toys, build a house under the table, draw on the walls, hang my drawings, draw hopscotch on the floor with chalk, jump over a rubber band attached to chairs, watch TV, read books, and rummage through closets while no one was looking. Then I’d visit my parents, eat, and go back—and maybe by then, grandmother would be back. The main thing was for her to be in a good, cheerful mood.

Doll Dressmaking and the Secret Haven

I had a favorite doll, and I sewed outfits for her—they always bought me materials, ribbons, and lace. My grandmother also sewed clothes for the dolls, neatly and meticulously. Mom said that I needed to make a pattern first, then cut the fabric. But I was too lazy for that. I cut out trendy designs "by eye." I sewed on a special toy sewing machine constantly. The doll had plenty of clothes. I also cut her hair, regretting that it wouldn't grow back. I painted her eyes and lips.

I loved playing "house" under the table, building houses out of paper, making furniture for them, and papering the walls. I could get dad involved to make real lighting. The room looked like a workshop. Due to a domestic conflict between my grandmother and mother, mom didn't go in there and didn't scold me for the mess and dirt. Grandmother didn't care, so I had a certain freedom of action and creativity. In my childhood, I always felt that I could find a way out of any situation and come up with something.

Giving and Receiving Gifts

I love gifts in the form of surprises. On holidays, my grandmother always made me gifts and signed a card. On those days, I would go to her room in the morning and look at the usual spot for presents—there, neatly laid out on a newspaper, would be the gifts and a card. If my grandmother wasn't in the room at that moment, I would call her; I never touched them without her. It was joyful and exciting.

Giving gifts myself was difficult. They were always prepared for the occasion, but it was easier for me to just leave them in a visible place rather than handing them over while saying congratulations. It is still hard with my parents, but I give them to other people without any trouble.

Resistance to Coercion and the Bangs Incident

I really disliked being forced to do anything. For example, if my grandmother decided to trim my bangs and I was against it, she would persuade me and then offer a gift—which was something I loved. That is how I would end up agreeing.

Once she cut them, and my parents came home in the evening, I was already going to bed and hid my face under the blanket. I felt deeply ashamed of having those bangs; I thought they looked ugly.

Piano Lessons and the Need for Control

When I was five or six years old, my grandmother tried to teach me to play the piano. She would sit next to me, showing and explaining things. Naturally, no one succeeds right away, but I couldn't react calmly to that. The moment something didn't work out, it irritated me terribly. It felt humiliating—as if I were worse than my grandmother since I couldn't do it.

I would start screaming, calling her names, banging my fists on the keys, and kicking the piano; I wanted to smash it to pieces. Afterward, I still wanted to learn, so I tried to study the notes and play on my own, but nothing worked. Later, my musical talent was discovered at school, and I was invited to a music school. I was thrilled and wanted to go, but my dad said the piano slots were all full, leaving only the cello, which was too difficult and not worth it. That was the end of that.

My grandmother often played the piano at home, but I couldn't stand listening to her. It felt like she had no ear for music, and it annoyed me that she played poorly and unprofessionally. I didn’t allow her to play around me. When I came in, I would demand in a raised voice that she stop. She didn't give in immediately, but she eventually yielded.

Self-Perception and Conflict with Mother

There was a period when I was afraid of falling asleep because I didn't know what was there. Sometimes I had scary dreams and nightmares. Sometimes in a dream, I realized I was dreaming and needed to wake up, so I would start jumping hard in the dream to wake myself up.

I was always attracted to mysterious, fairy-tale events and things. I considered myself unique, singled out, very smart, wise, and knowing absolutely everything. Mom fought hard against this, trying to ground me, or, as it seemed to me, humiliate me. She said that I was just like everyone else, if not worse, and more often than not, I understood that I was worse—that there was no point in climbing high, because falling hurts, and it would definitely happen. She believed I had no talents and didn't believe in me. She was often surprised when I succeeded at something. This irritated me.

I was overcome by helplessness, despondency, and apathy because mom needed to be moved, but she was heavy; it required a lot of strength, and I didn't have enough. I felt her limitation within certain frameworks, which irritated me because I do not recognize boundaries. I felt her heaviness, immobility, certain conventions and stereotypes, and a lack of lightness. It was almost the same with my father, but still easier. With my grandmother, it was much easier—not in terms of relationships, but in terms of perception; I felt her lightness, boundlessness, mind, intellect, and uniqueness.

Different Attitudes Toward Illness

When I was sick, my mom treated me, consulting with my dad and doctors. I trusted them; they always said it was nothing serious, I would recover, and "no one ever died from this." I was sick often, but it was more of a tedious process with a bunch of restrictions than something scary. Dad said he had it worse, but it passed, and that one needs to do sports.

When I was put into a sports club, I had no positive emotions from it, nor any desire to go, but my parents said "you must," and I complied for many years, even though my relationships in the club were bad with almost everyone. Nevertheless, I barely got sick; a cold with a fever became a rarity.

Grandmother reacted to illness differently—she was afraid of everything, watched TV shows, read books, took a bunch of pills, and often called the ambulance. She knew every conceivable and inconceivable complication and consequence—and in general, a whole bunch of scenarios of what could cause what. If something happened, even a minor thing, especially to my dad, she would gasp very loudly and act as if something terrible had occurred.

This made me uncomfortable because I thought that, according to mom and dad, it was no big deal, yet grandmother had such a reaction. So how was it really? How should I react and feel about it? Who was right? Grandmother was called an alarmist.

Family Conflicts and Hypocrisy

I really disliked conflicts, especially in the family. I wanted everyone to be friends and not say nasty things about each other. My other grandmother and my mom, while interacting amiably with people during the day, would speak poorly of them in the family circle at evening. I didn't understand or accept this. If they are bad, why interact with them "nicely"? And if they are good, why say nasty things?

There was a constant confrontation among my closest relatives—they didn't accept each other. I communicated with everyone; everyone seemed to accept me and told me bad things about the others. I was afraid to defend anyone because I didn't feel confident in any of them. I just wanted peace.

Source: How to Raise a Child Without Complexes by O. Mikhevnina