Mommy, I Don’t Need You:
About Grown-Up Kids and Immature Parents
Chapter 6
About Grown-Up Kids and Immature Parents
Chapter 6
Honestly, when Mom was off on one of her drinking binges, life actually felt calmer. No screaming, no fights. Just a quiet, predictable routine with Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma made sure I was well-fed—oatmeal, hearty soups, homemade pastries. And most nights, she let me sleep in her big, cozy bed.
At first, I had my own little bed, but I figured out how to climb out of it pretty fast. Then they gave me a couch, but sleeping alone felt scary. So I started sneaking into Grandma’s bed. Most of the time, she let me stay, but sometimes she sent me back, saying I kicked too much in my sleep.
That’s when I’d pull out my secret weapon. In the middle of the night, I’d creep over, sit on a chair next to her bed, and whisper: “Grandmaaa… Grandmaaa… can I pleeease sleep with you…?” She’d try to resist, but she never lasted long. That trick almost always worked.
My great-grandmother was super religious. She was the one who told me about God. I loved the idea of some guy up in the sky watching over us. Of course, I hoped he wasn’t watching all the time, but I figured he tuned in when it really mattered—like when I needed a new Barbie or wanted Mom to come home sooner. It never really worked, but I kept believing anyway.
Grandma taught me how to pray, how to cross myself, and how to say “Amen.” She did the old-school version, crossing herself with two fingers. My biggest dream back then? To get baptized.
We went to church together for long services. I mostly just stared at the icons on the walls. Got bored fast, but there was no leaving early. Back home, Grandma had her own prayer book—old, yellowed pages, prayers for every occasion, all in old Russian with those weird letters. I memorized the Our Father and used it whenever I felt I needed some divine intervention. That book was Grandma’s favorite. She even hid money in it. It felt like a part of her, so when she passed away, we buried it with her.
The room we lived in felt huge to me as a kid. Besides the bed and my couch, there was one of those classic Soviet wall units—took up the whole damn wall. It had everything: a wardrobe, shelves crammed with books, a secret drawer, and sections for fancy dishes. I loved looking at those dishes—Grandma had full tea sets with tiny spoons decorated with landmarks. But over time, the sets disappeared.
So did most of the books. Grandpa sold them off, bit by bit, to buy booze. He thought he was being sneaky, but I noticed. Every time a teacup vanished, he’d come home in a suspiciously good mood.
Grandpa was my mom’s dad, and Grandma’s son. When we were all together, it kind of felt like I had both parents. Grandma was like my mom, Grandpa like my dad. It was a weird, jumbled version of a family, but at least it was something.
The wardrobe was my favorite spot. First of all, you could just sit inside. And I loved that—hiding in there, feeling safe in my own little world, breathing in the smell of old clothes.
And second, it was full of treasures—dresses, shoes, purses. Grandma had so many dresses, and I was obsessed with them. Mom’s wedding dress was in there too. I begged to try it on, but Grandma never let me. But the white wedding heels? Those were fair game. Of course, they were way too big, but I still clomped around the room in them. They were Mom’s, which made them special.
Grandma had a vanity table between the bed and the fireplace. The fireplace wasn’t working anymore, but we used it for something way better—tossing my baby teeth inside. I still wonder if they’re in there. Would be hilarious if someone found them years later and tried to figure out why the hell there were tiny teeth in the fireplace.
Anyway, back to the vanity. On top was this big, clunky white lamp with a lampshade—super trendy back then. Hanging on the mirror was Grandma’s curly wig, which she wore for special occasions. The table was cluttered with lipsticks, powders, perfumes. The drawers were full of curlers and random jewelry. Grandma was still under 70 back then, and she loved looking nice.
In the middle of the room was a huge dining table. Once, I asked Grandpa what a still life was, and he said, “See everything on this table? That’s a still life. Except for these socks.” Grandma sewed and patched things all the time, so the table was always covered in piles of socks, tights, and other mending projects.
But nobody really ate at that table. A little closer to the TV, there were two armchairs and a small coffee table—that’s where Grandpa and I actually lived. At night, he pulled out his cot and slept there. My couch was against the wall to the left, so I could fall asleep with the TV on. Funny how, as an adult, I need total silence and darkness to sleep. Back then, I didn’t care.
Another highlight of my childhood? Bathtime. Grandma would fill the tub with potassium permanganate, turning the water bright pink. I loved it. No idea what it actually did, but Grandma swore it killed bacteria. Sometimes, I just got a regular bubble bath, dunking my toys in the water while she washed my hair with whatever shampoo was in the latest commercial.
My great-grandmother was super religious. She was the one who told me about God. I loved the idea of some guy up in the sky watching over us. Of course, I hoped he wasn’t watching all the time, but I figured he tuned in when it really mattered—like when I needed a new Barbie or wanted Mom to come home sooner. It never really worked, but I kept believing anyway.
Grandma taught me how to pray, how to cross myself, and how to say “Amen.” She did the old-school version, crossing herself with two fingers. My biggest dream back then? To get baptized.
We went to church together for long services. I mostly just stared at the icons on the walls. Got bored fast, but there was no leaving early. Back home, Grandma had her own prayer book—old, yellowed pages, prayers for every occasion, all in old Russian with those weird letters. I memorized the Our Father and used it whenever I felt I needed some divine intervention. That book was Grandma’s favorite. She even hid money in it. It felt like a part of her, so when she passed away, we buried it with her.
The room we lived in felt huge to me as a kid. Besides the bed and my couch, there was one of those classic Soviet wall units—took up the whole damn wall. It had everything: a wardrobe, shelves crammed with books, a secret drawer, and sections for fancy dishes. I loved looking at those dishes—Grandma had full tea sets with tiny spoons decorated with landmarks. But over time, the sets disappeared.
So did most of the books. Grandpa sold them off, bit by bit, to buy booze. He thought he was being sneaky, but I noticed. Every time a teacup vanished, he’d come home in a suspiciously good mood.
Grandpa was my mom’s dad, and Grandma’s son. When we were all together, it kind of felt like I had both parents. Grandma was like my mom, Grandpa like my dad. It was a weird, jumbled version of a family, but at least it was something.
The wardrobe was my favorite spot. First of all, you could just sit inside. And I loved that—hiding in there, feeling safe in my own little world, breathing in the smell of old clothes.
And second, it was full of treasures—dresses, shoes, purses. Grandma had so many dresses, and I was obsessed with them. Mom’s wedding dress was in there too. I begged to try it on, but Grandma never let me. But the white wedding heels? Those were fair game. Of course, they were way too big, but I still clomped around the room in them. They were Mom’s, which made them special.
Grandma had a vanity table between the bed and the fireplace. The fireplace wasn’t working anymore, but we used it for something way better—tossing my baby teeth inside. I still wonder if they’re in there. Would be hilarious if someone found them years later and tried to figure out why the hell there were tiny teeth in the fireplace.
Anyway, back to the vanity. On top was this big, clunky white lamp with a lampshade—super trendy back then. Hanging on the mirror was Grandma’s curly wig, which she wore for special occasions. The table was cluttered with lipsticks, powders, perfumes. The drawers were full of curlers and random jewelry. Grandma was still under 70 back then, and she loved looking nice.
In the middle of the room was a huge dining table. Once, I asked Grandpa what a still life was, and he said, “See everything on this table? That’s a still life. Except for these socks.” Grandma sewed and patched things all the time, so the table was always covered in piles of socks, tights, and other mending projects.
But nobody really ate at that table. A little closer to the TV, there were two armchairs and a small coffee table—that’s where Grandpa and I actually lived. At night, he pulled out his cot and slept there. My couch was against the wall to the left, so I could fall asleep with the TV on. Funny how, as an adult, I need total silence and darkness to sleep. Back then, I didn’t care.
Another highlight of my childhood? Bathtime. Grandma would fill the tub with potassium permanganate, turning the water bright pink. I loved it. No idea what it actually did, but Grandma swore it killed bacteria. Sometimes, I just got a regular bubble bath, dunking my toys in the water while she washed my hair with whatever shampoo was in the latest commercial.
That was our life.
The only thing that ever disrupted it was Mom—blowing in like
a hurricane, wrecking everything.
