My parents managed to find a stupid pediatrician. Either that or they lied to me, and the mistakes were their own decisions. But they told me the enema was doctor’s advice, and they insisted that their silence before my tonsillectomy was prescribed.

I remember. Without a shrink or hypnosis or melodrama I recollect. For you see, the issue was one of control; apparently no one else was in charge, so I had to be, and that meant I needed to remember.

Don’t misunderstand: my parents were cute. They were bright. They were filled with energy. They loved one another and they loved me. But they were each the youngest of their own family, and they were both clueless about how to talk to me. They thought a baby was of a different species, like a pet. They thought their child was a continuation of their own bodies, so they didn’t respect mine.

I’m sure they meant to console me, but mostly they found my fear of the washing machine amusing. I had to come to my own terms with the monster in the circular window
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And I’m certain now that my mother must have decided it was time to toilet train me based on her readiness and not on mine. She’s impatient. That would account for a situation where a dumb doctor might recommend the use of an enema, to give them control over when I defecated. I remember the offense as repeated: me bent over my father’s lap daily, my anus penetrated against my will. They now assure me that they only did it once; I must have been so outraged that they were too intimidated for more. I also recollect that they tried to bribe me with promises about a doll carriage like my neighbor’s, but they have no memory of that. I think I knew then that they were behaving incorrectly, but perhaps I concluded that later, and then recast the event. I know I was angry. I believe I forgave them.

It may have been as early as then, around 2, that I assumed my own reins, but probably it was later. I think I witnessed a succession of small parental errors, many in how they treated my younger brother compared to me, and I probably didn’t take full charge till I was almost 6. I remember feeling confused about some of their choices, disappointed even, but reserving some judgment then. He still seemed godlike. She was his busy and beloved consort.

The tonsillectomy cured that. They stayed with me in the waiting room, but they could just as cruelly have dropped me off. There was illogical talk about me getting a ballerina doll I coveted, tomorrow, but no conversation about today. I assumed when the nurse took me away that I’d be returned to my parents within minutes, but I didn’t see them for ages. First I had to endure the elevator ride with the idiot nurse, the humiliating injection, a lonely vigil in a wheelchair, ether, nausea, pain, a bed with rails, nausea, pain, the unending night, pain, and nausea. Nothing but chaos and confusion above me. I had to conclude that everyone working in that hospital was stupid. By the time I saw my parents again, I still loved them but I no longer needed them.

That’s not to say I didn’t learn from them. I carried my father’s stubborn “Time is not the fourth dimension” like a banner throughout junior high school. Our philosophical discussions helped form my environmentalism. And I’ll never forget the lessons Mom taught me about how to select well-made garments, and that one good piece is better than a dozen rags.

No, I was still a child at 5½. But I formed my own opinions. And before too long I began to map out a program to raise myself.