Doctor Spock published his first child care book in 1946. His second book, A Baby's First Year, came out in 1954. That book became my personal Bible. In it, this world renowned man of medical science encouraged mothers to follow their own instincts ... feed their babies on demand and keep the rocking chair moving. I loved the way that man's mind worked. For nine months his book remained always within my easy reach.
I was studying hard to become, not just a good mother, but a perfect mother.
When I wasn't reading "how-to" books, I was lowering myself clumsily to the floor in front of a small overflowing cedar chest, removing stacks of baby clothes and shaking them out to admire every miniature collar and button, before folding them neatly back again. Sometimes, when nobody was looking, I washed and ironed small garments that had already been washed and ironed more than once.
The cedar chest - beautifully hand-crafted in eleventh grade shop class - had been a gift from my high school sweetheart.
It was customary, during the 40's and 50's, for teen-age girls to own a hope chest filled with fancy needlework. Pillowcases and dish towels were often made from white cotton flour sacks. Iron-on stencils could be purchased at Ben Franklin's Dime Store. My pillowcases were covered with roses and my dishtowels were decorated with tomatoes, cucumbers, butterflies, birds, and anything else that captured my imagination. Embroidery needles were seldom idle at my house.
When I married the maker of that beautiful cedar chest on September 2, 1954, those handmade linens were promptly removed and put to practical use, and almost before I finished arranging wedding china in kitchen cupboards, the cedar chest began to fill again. This time, with baby clothes.
Back in high-school, the handsome ball player destined to become my husband, earned the Babe Ruth Championship medal, and was awarded an athletic scholarship to College of the Ozarks. In the fall of 1953, new friends at this school immediately began calling him "Tony" because he looked exactly like the movie star, Tony Curtis.
Later, when choosing a name for our first-born child, that college nickname simplified matters. The baby would have his father's dark skin and coal black hair and he would be called Tony.
I was studying hard to become, not just a good mother, but a perfect mother.
When I wasn't reading "how-to" books, I was lowering myself clumsily to the floor in front of a small overflowing cedar chest, removing stacks of baby clothes and shaking them out to admire every miniature collar and button, before folding them neatly back again. Sometimes, when nobody was looking, I washed and ironed small garments that had already been washed and ironed more than once.
The cedar chest - beautifully hand-crafted in eleventh grade shop class - had been a gift from my high school sweetheart.
It was customary, during the 40's and 50's, for teen-age girls to own a hope chest filled with fancy needlework. Pillowcases and dish towels were often made from white cotton flour sacks. Iron-on stencils could be purchased at Ben Franklin's Dime Store. My pillowcases were covered with roses and my dishtowels were decorated with tomatoes, cucumbers, butterflies, birds, and anything else that captured my imagination. Embroidery needles were seldom idle at my house.
When I married the maker of that beautiful cedar chest on September 2, 1954, those handmade linens were promptly removed and put to practical use, and almost before I finished arranging wedding china in kitchen cupboards, the cedar chest began to fill again. This time, with baby clothes.
Back in high-school, the handsome ball player destined to become my husband, earned the Babe Ruth Championship medal, and was awarded an athletic scholarship to College of the Ozarks. In the fall of 1953, new friends at this school immediately began calling him "Tony" because he looked exactly like the movie star, Tony Curtis.
Later, when choosing a name for our first-born child, that college nickname simplified matters. The baby would have his father's dark skin and coal black hair and he would be called Tony.
On June 1, 1955 our son came into this world looking like John Wayne with maybe a touch of Steve McQueen. Tony Curtis was nowhere to be found.
" ... the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry ...."
Tony was beautiful. Boys are not supposed to be called beautiful so I'll say he was handsome, but, truly, he was the most beautiful baby ever born. He was beautiful and strong-willed and loud. Very loud.
A pediatrician took over our lives. Specialists were just coming into style back then, and I was proud to say my child had the best. However, Doctor Spock's great book was scorned by the young pediatrician. There I was, the most scared and ignorant of all scared, ignorant, first-time mothers and I was trapped between two experts with differing opinions. For three long months I cried right along with Tony and he cried all the time. It's a wonder we weren't both severely dehydrated.
Then - better late than never - common sense kicked in. I cancelled the specialist, threw Dr. Spock out the window and my son and I flew by the seat of our pants. I made a thousand mistakes. Most, too small to notice. A few, big enough to knock us off our feet, but only temporarily. We always got back up again, my son and I, dusted ourselves off and moved straight ahead through years filled with plenty of laughter and not too many frowns.
It was quite a trip.
Today - June 1, 2009 - I'm looking back over fifty-four wonderful years.
I wouldn't change a thing.
Happy Birthday, Tony!
Happy Birthday, my son ...
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