Carmen

She was born May 4, 1962 at Baptist hospital in Little Rock, Arkansas. I can't remember, now, her birth weight or length, but even after all these years I still remember the warm sweetness of a blanket-wrapped bundle being placed in my arms. I remember the first visual examination ... the one all new mothers perform immediately after giving birth ... ears, nose, eyes, fingers ... the newness ... the perfection ... I marveled at such exquisite beauty.

It was when I opened blankets to examine her feet that I felt a beginning of fear. Tiny perfect toes were pointed backward instead of forward. Heels were positioned exactly where toes should be.

The doctor said if I massaged the baby's feet outward, daily, before bones hardened, ligaments and tendons in the backs of her legs would, more than likely, tighten and pull her feet into proper alignment.

"I'll massage faithfully," I said, " but what if it doesn't work?"

"Casts may be put on at a later date, if needed," the doctor replied.

Casts? Oh, no! My hands quickly began what was to become a tireless on-going routine of rubbing, patting, turning and twisting. Through it all, my unconcerned daughter slept.

That soothing sensation must have imprinted itself permanently upon Carmen's mind. Through all the years to follow she never gave up her desire to be rubbed.

In Church, a pre-school age Carmen always removed her black patent Mary Janes and arranged them neatly beneath the pew before hopping upon my lap, making sure her feet were within easy reach of my hands.

Her place by my side during church services was one she never relinquished. She was a peace-loving child, but she would fight her siblings - two older and two younger - if one dared usurp her church seat. As she grew older and gained dignity, shoes remained on her feet and hand-rubbing replaced foot-rubbing.

As a teenager, she would have liked to sit with friends, but she was so addicted to having her hands rubbed she couldn't make it through a sermon without Mama.

The situation embarrassed her.

Not enough to give it up.

Today, almost half-a-century later, Carmen moves her chair close to mine during visits. Her fingers find their way into my hand and absent-minded rubbing keeps steady pace with family news.

Carmen was my only "mama baby."

When my son entered first grade, I envied mothers who had little boys hanging onto their legs, begging not to be left in that place. Tony was ready for me to leave before we arrived. He was looking things over, sizing up the academic atmosphere, deciding the best way to get the most out of this required adventure. He barely acknowledged my wave goodbye. Certainly, he didn't cry.

When Patti began her first day of school, she quickly left my side and hurried to befriend a sobbing child who was wiping a runny nose on her mama's skirt and, in my opinion, behaving in an entirely appropriate manner. Patti, who wasn't one bit scared, plopped down on the floor, opened her Snow White and Seven Dwarfs lunch box and removed one Oreo cookie. Pulling it apart, she kept the cream filled side for herself and offered the less tasty portion to crybaby. Tears vanished along with cookie crumbs, and two little girls became best friends on the spot.

One child waved a tearful goodbye to her mother.

It wasn't my child.

Carmen wasn't as brave as her older siblings.

At 3 months she cried if I put her down, so I didn't. I cooked, folded laundry and made beds one-handed. At 7 months she tolerated physical separation as long as I remained in sight, but if I left the room she screamed. A scared scream. Not a spoiled scream. Mothers know the difference.

A fluffy pillow in the bottom of a laundry basket made an ideal baby seat. That oval shaped wicker basket traveled with me all day every day ... from kitchen to laundry to front porch to back yard. Carmen and I were seldom apart.

I took advantage of all that forced togetherness to teach basic rules of life to my baby. "Remember this, Carmen, when you're a grown-up lady, you must always hang diapers neatly on the clothes line. Otherwise, neighbors will think you're a slob. You don't want neighbors to think you're a slob, do you?"

From the wicker basket came my daughter's laughter. She knew, even then, my ideas were foolish.

At 18 months she stood guard by the tub while I showered. Curtain wide open. We used a lot of towels during those days ... one for me, one for Carmen, one for the floor.

Sometimes her separation anxieties seemed to be lessening. By age three mama-baby became escape artist. One minute, playing with the dog in the back yard. Next minute, over the fence and gone.

Heart pounding, knees trembling, I hurried down the sidewalk, searching. The girl had blazed a trail. Here, one shoe. There, two socks. Around the corner, a small red shirt. Tiny shorts crumpled in a careless heap. Bending once more, I added white training pants to the wardrobe collection in my arms.

Merciful GOD! Where was my child?

Then I saw the scamp. Down one more block . Completely naked except for the ribbon holding her ponytail. She was looking way up at a tall policeman. He was looking way down at her. The two were deep in conversation when I breathlessly joined their group. Carmen, showing no concern for her bare bottom, performed an offhand introduction, "This is Mommy."

Just when I thought she had outgrown excessive dependency, she once again began to cling. Perhaps the birth of another baby sister ...

I could never know for sure.

Enrolled in kindergarten at age five, Carmen dropped out within weeks. Part of me was proud to have a child love me so much she couldn't bear to leave me. The saner part of me knew it wasn't healthy.

Why, out of five children, was Carmen my only clingy one? And why did I - an otherwise sensible parent - encourage the clinging?

The reason remains hidden in a long-ago time Carmen will never remember ... and I will never forget.