During this time, my mother was pregnant with my younger brother. Despite her delicate condition, she would prepare both me and my younger sister every morning, taking us to the kindergarten and nursery before heading off to work. I used to throw tantrums, resisting her as she held my wrist in one hand and my sister in the other. She would try to calm me down, saying, “Well done, my daughter. It’s getting late, and we need to hurry.” If I still resisted, she would simply start walking forward without me. In response, I would drop to the ground and kick my feet, crying loudly, “Mom, come with me!” My neatly-fitted hanbok skirt would get all muddy, and my shoes would be flung away. I was a daily headache for my mother, often preventing her from going to work.
When I was little, my mother always dressed us in beautiful Hanbok chimajeogori (skirt and jacket). My father would bring home all sorts of nice clothes and shoes from his business trips to Pyongyang, gifts from our uncles for their distant nephews and nieces.
One time, while playing on a slide at kindergarten, I got a thorn stuck on my butt. The slide was made of wood, and one side was cracked and spiky. Despite the teachers’ warnings to stay away from it, I climbed onto the slide. After sliding down a few times, I ended up with a thorn stuck in my butt, and I started crying loudly. A teacher rushed out of the classroom at the sound of my cries, inspected the thorn in my behind, and sent for my mother.
The kindergarten was in chaos, and the teachers didn’t know what to do. I cried my heart out as blood continued to flow. My mother, heavily pregnant, arrived and rushed me to the hospital. They had to cut open the skin to remove the thorn. My mischievous antics often gave my parents quite a bit of trouble.
On another occasion, when my sisters were not at home, and my father was away on a business trip, my brother, who was supposed to be studying, began playing with a bowl of beans in the corner of the room. My sister and I noticed and joined him, causing the beans to scatter all over the floor. My brother, trying to clean up, suggested we play a quiet and fun game. He held a bean in his nostril and blew it out with a “Pooh!” The bean shot out and landed on the other side of the room. My sister and I burst into laughter. Amused, I decided to try it myself, sticking a bean in my nostril and blowing it out. My bean also flew across the room. We continued taking turns blowing beans out, but disaster struck when I tried to push a bean in too far.
The bean got stuck, and I couldn’t get it out. Panicked, my brother hushed us, afraid our mother would find out. He assured me the bean would come out naturally the next day and told me not to tell anyone about it. He took us outside to play, and I forgot about the bean inside my nostril.
Three days passed, and the bean inside my nostril swelled and started to hurt. My kindergarten teacher noticed something was wrong as I, usually a loud and restless child, was suddenly sitting quietly. She realized I had a fever and sent for my mother. My mother was puzzled by my fever and discomfort. When she asked where I was hurting, I pointed to my nose and said, “There’s a bean in here.” It was only then that she noticed my vivid yellow runny nose, something she had never seen in me before.
I was taken to the hospital, and the bean was removed through surgery. The bean game led to our typically pampered older brother, the firstborn son of the family, being scolded and vowing never to play such a game again.
I was simply an energetic child who constantly wanted to run, roll, and play freely, making it impossible for anyone to keep me under control. Looking back, I realize that I was able to have such a carefree and playful childhood because of my loving and caring parents. My memories of those days are as vivid as if they happened just yesterday.
The birth of my younger brother had been eagerly anticipated by my parents, and his arrival brought them great joy. The very next day after his birth, my father took me to the kindergarten. However, as soon as we reached the kindergarten gate, I dashed back to the factory’s main entrance. Standing there, I proudly announced to every worker passing by that my mother had given birth to a son. Even at such a young age, I felt a sense of pride in having a brother born into a family of mostly daughters.
I even noticed a familiar female worker who was sneaking in because she was running late, and I couldn’t resist sharing the good news with her. I shouted, “My mom gave birth to a son!” My voice attracted the attention of the labor manager, who came out of the security room. The late worker was caught and scolded severely, all thanks to my enthusiastic announcement. Years later, the employee would joke with my mother about how she got caught for being late that day because I shouted at the gate.
