baby

Andrew and Molly Part 21

Molly was exhausted. The work of her farm, family, responsibility for her indentured servants was unrelenting. Ailing since he was injured in the Indian attack, Bartles had never enjoyed a full return to health. Lately, his left leg dragged a bit and his mouth drew to the left. In the short time since his return, Andrew had picked up most of Bartles’ work. Molly could see the relief on Bartles’s face.

Aggie was grateful to have Bartles about the house with her and kept the little girls at her side when Rosemarie was too busy to care for them leaving Molly free for other duties. Jamie kept busy following everyone at their farm tasks.

Though she appreciated Aggie’s help, Molly regretted not being able to tend her own house and children. She was worried about being able to care for four little ones should she not be able to keep Rosemarie once the baby was weaned. Orphaned herself, she felt for the wee mite but wasn’t anxious to take on another child. It seemed like everytime her life was looking better there was another bump in the road.

Even the baby did not lie abed. Though it was early, he was on his way into town wrapped in a sling on Rosemarie’s back. The storeowner’s wife stopped her to talk after Rosemarie gave her the list. “I heard you’d lost your baby but here you are with one strapped to your back! How’d you get another so fast?” she asked snidely.

Knowing her place, Rosemarie avoided the discussion as much as possible. “This is not my babe. Mistress Wharton has me minding the baby her man Andrew brought when he escaped from the Indians. I’d best go. Mistress Wharton won’t like me gossiping.”

Molly and Andrew Part 17

Molly was stunned to see Andrew standing before her.  She’d long ago given him up. He was emaciated and scarred, little resembling the healthy man she’d last seen.  He dropped to the ground at her feet, wrapping his arms around her legs. “Molly, Molly, I thought I’d never see you again.”

Overwhelmed at his unexpected return after so long, she was bewildered and confused.  As he wept and buried his head in her skirts, she dropped to her knees and held him.  The little girls clung to their mother as she called to Jamie,  “Go get Pap and Gran! Run! Run!”

Jamie whirled and ran, shrieking, “Pap!  Gran!  Ma wants you!  Hurry!”

Molly felt no connection to the poor wretch she was trying to comfort. Her crying girls added to the confusion by pulling at her. Amid all this, she heard the weak cries of an infant coming from his pack.

“Feed him, please.  He’s had nothing since yesterday morning.” With this, Andrew struggled to work a pack off his back.  He lay it on the ground, tenderly unwrapping it to reveal a starving baby boy, bound in a malodorous blanket.  The child could have been no more than a few weeks old.  “Help please,” he beseeched her.  “He may yet die.”

“God in Heaven!  Poor baby!  Hurry girls.  We have to feed him!”  Forgetting Andrew, she scooped up the wailing baby and ran for the house, pulling Hannah by the hand. Aggie kept up the best she could.  She couldn’t see Will, Aggie, and Jamie reaching Andrew behind her.  With the baby in one arm, she heated milk in a pan over the fire.  As it warmed, she hastily washed the baby, wrapping it snugly in a towel.  Dipping a clean cloth in warm milk over and over, the baby suckled. Meanwhile, Will and Addie supported Andrew between them, seated him at the table, and got him food and drink. Afterward, Will helped him bathe and get into James’ nightshirt then into bed in spare room.

In the interim, Molly and Addie bathed and dressed the baby, settling it in the cradle.  Once it was full, warm, and dry, the baby gave them no trouble.

As the excitement settled and the children played at their feet, Molly, Will, and Addie tried to piece the story together.  Apparently, Andrew and a few others had been enslaved by the Powhatan tribe, since his capture.  They had been able to escape after a recent trader brought measles, decimating the village, leaving no one to pursue them.  They’d been traveling several days and he the baby were the only survivors.

Molly had no idea what to make of Andrew’s return with the baby.  She’d married Andrew in England and then, thinking him dead, married James in Jamestown. So much time and life had passed that their time together was not not real to her. She had grieved and given him up long ago. She had no idea where this left her, but today there was business to tend.  

At Addie’s suggestion, she sent Will to pay the fine and bargain for the indenture of a sixteen-year-year old girl who was sitting in jail for the crime of having had a bastard child.  It had been stillborn yesterday, so she should still be able to nurse this baby.

She would just deal with what had to be done today and let tomorrow take care of itself.  For now, everyone under her roof was fed and safe.

Don’t Bother Reaching for Your Umbrella, It’s Probably Broken!

Baby group Kids small

Top pic:  Me and the kids in baby’s first days.  Notice how I don’t appear to know how to manage.  A picture is worth a thousand words.

Bottom Pic: Children about six months later

The baby was tiny. I hadn’t seen anything but tonsils, poop, and Sesame Street in three weeks. My three-year-old-jabbered non-stop. My ears were sore. Naturally, with the clear-thinking of a woman with near terminal post-partum depression, I took full responsibility everything that went wrong.

I don’t know if Bud was a good father or not, since he was rarely home. Just days just before the baby came, he’d been lucky enough to land a job where he worked six days on, three days off. We were ecstatic! For the first time since we got married, we were rich! Miraculously, we didn’t have to worry about getting the utilities cut off each month. There was no way either of us was about to complain about the demands of his job as long as he could stagger to work.

This time out, Bud been gone two days. The baby cried incessantly, with the exception of frequent poop breaks. Of course, I used cloth diapers since this was more than forty years ago. My son was happy as a clam, jabbering merrily behind me every step I took. All was going well till I foolishly left a poopy diaper to soak in the toilet. Of course, I knew what might happen.  Bud had pointed it out to me repeatedly when he left me to do all the rinsing! Though my son had no interest in toilet-training, toilet-flushing was high drama. The toilet plugged.

Our budget had only recently stretched to include regular utility payments. There was no way it would include a plumber. I did not look forward telling Bud what had happened when he got back.  Thank goodness, I was able to hook it with an unraveled wire coat-hanger, saving the day.

Apparently, the gods of Mayhem weren’t through with me yet! On the pre-rinse cycle, with the diapers still dirty, the washer threw a belt,  halting the first load of the morning. Still on a high from the joy of retrieving the diaper from the toilet, I thought. That’s not so bad, I can probably find enough change in the piggy bank to take a couple of loads to the laundromat. Bud would be paid in a couple of days. At least we have plenty of groceries, a roof over our heads, and all the bills paid.

Pulling the sodden, stinking mess from the washer, I wrung them out enough to get them in a plastic basket, heaving the heavy wad into the trunk of my car, along with a load of my toddler son’s essentials. Even though I put them in a plastic trash bag first, it leaked, leaving a malodorous, disgusting stream on my clean floors. I mopped the mess up with disinfectant, a pretty hefty job.

It was as cold as it gets in Louisiana, probably in the low teens. I dressed the kids warmly and strapped them in the car, dreading the trip to the laundromat. I needn’t have worried. The car wouldn’t start! I tried two or three times, hoping for magic since I’d been so blessed with the diaper in the toilet miracle. My luck was done for the day. I had also stunk up the trunk of the car for nothing.

I dragged the kids back in. By now, the baby was squawling and my son was disappointed. He’d been promised a treat! He hadn’t been out of the house in two days. I knew just how he felt! I got them settled. Brought the stinky diapers back in, did them in the bathtub, and cleaned up the floor again while they dried! Take it from me, diapers not spun in the washer take a long, long, long time to dry. So do toddler clothes.

Since my hard floors were freshly mopped and sweet-smelling, while the laundry was still drying, I reasoned it would be best to go ahead and vacuum the living-room and my bedroom, so the whole house would be clean at once! I could at least enjoy a clean house if I was stuck at home. Getting the vacuum out of the closet, I plugged it into an outlet in the living-room. Pop!! Sizzle!! Smoke and a sickening electrical smell arose as it snapped off. That was enough. I started boo-hooing then and there. Not to be outdone, both children joined in. We shared quality family time.

Finally, things settled down. I got the kids to bed. I didn’t fight the nightly battle to get my son to sleep in his own bed. I’d had enough! The baby awoke, crying for a bottle around midnight. I got up to feed her and felt a stabbing pain in my side. Oh darn it! I must have pulled a muscle dragging the sodden laundry around. Maybe it wouldn’t get too sore. My son padded in behind me to help as I fed the baby, jabbering non-stop and dragging his bunny. I sent him back to bed. I settled her and got back to bed. Later, I woke up sweltering and sweating. I felt like I was in a sweatbox and had difficulty getting a breath! I tried to sit straight up and felt an excruciating pain in my back. Was I dying alone here in the house with two helpless children? Bud wouldn’t be back for three more days! They could die, too. I had to try to save them! Only the courage of a dying mother explains what happens next. I forced myself to breathe slowly and deeply, rolling on my side. The pain was agonizing, but for the sake of my children, I pushed on. By now, I was on my stomach, slipping on my knees on the floor. I breathed shallowly through my pain, drawing in a little each time, making an effort to fill my lungs for maximum strength, not knowing what would happen when I tried to stand. My face was burning! The baby was three-weeks old. Did I have some kind of late-developing child-bed fever?

As I marshalled my strength to reach for the bed-side phone, it rang. Had Bud somehow psychically sensed my distress and called home to check on us? Gratefully, I croaked, “Thank God you called!”

It took the caller a moment to recover from the warm reception. “I’m beatin’ my meat!”

“What?” I wasn’t prepared for this, as I was expecting salvation.

“I’m beatin’ my meat!”

I hung up.  The diversion did get my mind off my troubles for a moment, till I remembered the agony of a pulled muscle. My son woke up and said, “Mommy, I’m hot!” Surely he didn’t have child-bed fever, too! Making my way down the hall to check the thermostat, I found his bunny hanging where he’d pushed the thermostat to max before heading off to bed. That explained my fever.

Some aspirin and a few miserable days took care of the pulled muscle. A new car battery and washer belt fixed things right up when Bud got back in three days later. The vacuum was toast. I had plenty to tell Bud when he asked, “What went on while I was gone?”

Baby Blues

We were a good couple.  Long before we got married, we agreed completely on important things…foreign policy, religion, life plans.  Then we got married.  Life was idyllic.  We were both in college, working student jobs.  Bud had saved over $500 and student loans covered my tuition.

Budgeting was easy.  At the first of the month we paid our rent, utilities, bought some dried beans, rice, flour, meal, spaghetti, and coffee.   If we had a couple of dollars left, we could buy a little gasoline for Bud’s old truck.  We walked to class, work, and the grocery store.   Carrying home our four bags of groceries (once a month) was not a struggle.  Sometimes we fished in the afternoons.  This doubled as a budget assist.  If we caught fish, we ate them as soon as we got home.  No luck…we had grits.  Our social life was relaxed.  We visited other impoverished students for entertainment and had a wonderful time, cherishing this poverty since we wouldn’t always be this poor and carefree.

A couple of years later, we started noticing other people’s kids, and decided to see what we could cook up.  We were out of college, both working, and having a hard time figuring how to spend all that money after the poverty of college.  Unconcerned that we were just starting out, I knew we could handle a baby just fine.  I imagined a little guy with dark, curly hair, smart, sweet, and adorable.  As smart as we both were, our child was sure to be a genius.  It never crossed my mind that our kid was free to exercise the options of our genetic pools, with all their messy subsets.  With all the sisters and brothers between us, we knew all about kids.  Since we already agreed on everything, and got along great, what could go wrong?  Our main goal was not to mess up like our parents had.  We’d cooperate, back each other up, and never, never speak or act without thinking of the effect on a tender child.

Sure enough, before too long, that tender child was on the way.  Pregnancy wasn’t too bad, but finding out we had to pay the doctor ourselves when Bud’s insurance didn’t cover was startling, but good practice for the many surprises to follow.  Every one of our dollars had a place to go now.  At a hundred dollars per pound, John was a quality baby.

I couldn’t wait to get home from the hospital and get the baby to myself. The new grandparents were waiting at the house, just dying to get their hands on him.  I was miffed when they grabbed him up before I even got him settled in, passing him from hand to hand, just like I wasn’t there.  Mother rushed to change his first diaper at home and he washed her face for her.  I thought that was just right.  They finally put him down after his first feeding.  He looked so sweet in his crib.  Eventually everyone left and Bud and I had him alone.  I was exhausted and settled in for a nap.

Twenty minutes in, I heard the rustling of sheets and some grunting.  It didn’t disturb me much.  Bud knew what to do.  I was right.  In a minute and a half Bud and the baby came calling.  It seemed the baby’s pooper had kicked into overdrive and overwhelmed his diaper, clothes, crib, and Bud’s clothes.  Bud was literally in over his head, sliding the slimy, malodorous baby in bed with me and was racing for the shower.  Stripping and gagging, he left a trail of dirty clothes and baby poop splatters locked outside the bathroom door.  I was right behind him, trying to get the baby’s bath stuff.

It was hopeless, so John’s first bath was in the cold kitchen – not the relaxing, calm bath I had planned for tomorrow morning. No rubber ducky, no velvety baby bath cloths, hooded towels, or gentle baby soap.  I dangled him awkwardly over the kitchen sink, bathing him with dish detergent and rinsing him with the pull out sprayer, running mustard-colored baby poop down the drain.  I dried him with dishtowels, the only thing handy.  Between the three of us, we managed to mess up all our bedding, our clothes, the crib sheets and blankets, six towels, a throw rug, and several dishtowels.  I think that’s probably the first time I called Bud a Stupid A**hole.

By the time the baby was bathed, fed, and settled back in his nice clean crib, we had piled up two full loads of laundry. We were all exhausted and starving.  Bud hadn’t gotten to the grocery store while I was in the hospital, so we had grits, fish sticks, and orange juice for supper, before passing out at 8:30, too tired to even put sheets back on our bed.  Uttering “Please, God let this baby sleep till at least 08:00 in the morning,” I wonder, “What in the world have I done?”

Well, I won’t say God wasn’t listening, but if he was, the answer was , “Hah!” John was not concerned about stereotypes and didn’t care that babies could sleep for twenty-two hours a day.  At 10:00 P.M. he howled, furious at our neglect. I was in another world and took a minute or two to realize what was going on.  I grabbed him up and changed him while Bud fumbled to heat a bottle.   He took about an ounce and a half, produced another impressive mustard poop, and was ready to go back to bed, totally unappreciative of his second cleanup of the night.  Not knowing if refrigerating and giving him the rest of that bottle later would kill him, I pitched it.

The hospital had sent six four-ounce bottles of formula home with us. We hadn’t bought formula ahead of time, since we didn’t know exactly what to buy.  One down, five to go.  Bud was going to make a supply run in the morning, so we’d be fine.    We settled in for the rest of the night.  Short night!  At 11:30, John was ready to go again.  I had already noticed that he was moody when he first woke up.

Since the literature said babies only cried when they were hungry or wet, I changed him while Bud went for the bottle, even though it had only been an hour and a half.  He took another ounce and a half, pooped, and nodded off.  I was starting to notice a pattern.  Next time we’d feed, then change.  It didn’t occur to me that it might be a good idea to jostle him awake to feed a little better.  Another bottle gone.  We shared quality time again at 01:30 and 03:30.  Two more bottles gone.

He was up for the day by 05:00…wide-eyed!  I fed him, bathed him, in the nice warm bathroom with all the proper accessories this time. I rocked him again, and waited for him to start on that twenty-two hour nap I was promised.  Bud was whipped and slipped back to bed while I waited.  I thought about putting him in his crib, but thought he might die, so I rocked.  By this time, the formula situation was getting serious, so I woke Bud to go find a store that opened early.

While living in a tiny town can have its advantages, access to well-stocked stores is not one of them.  After checking three local stores, Bud drove eleven miles into the next town for formula.  He bought one big can of Ready to Feed, and a case of the kind you mix at home, squeaking back in just before John was due a feeding.

Satisfied that he had the day going his way, John knocked back four ounces of formula and slept six hours.  He woke up just long enough to feed and slept another six hours.  Bud settled on the sofa and got a nice nap, too.  Not understanding the situation I had gotten myself into, I cleaned up the bathroom, kitchen, remade our bed, and did three loads of laundry.  I was exhausted, but got a nap mid-afternoon.  Bud was a fast learner.  He assumed I didn’t want to miss anything, and made sure to rouse me as soon as John woke in the early evening.

For the next three months, John and I spent a lot of time together at night.  I had to entertain myself during the day while he rested up. I learned a lot about babies, Bud, and myself in the next few days.

  1. John’s agenda did not include sleeping twenty-two hours a day.
  2. Bud was a better critic, than provider of baby care and always knew just what I was doing wrong. He couldn’t stay up at night because he had to work.
  3. I was in way over my head.
  4. The person you married may bear little resemblance to the person with whom you share responsibility of an infant, deteriorating rapidly from “My Love” to “You Stupid %$#&^” in a few hours.
  5. It doesn’t take long to get over wanting the baby “all to myself” once it actually happens.
  6. I was in way over my head.

Eventually, things settled down and we figured it all out. John is sleeping all night now.  We’re hoping to get him out of our bed soon.  He will be forty-one his next birthday!

Hard Time Marrying Part 28

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Emma spent the night and eased Anya’s concerns about baby care and breast-feeding.  If she thought Anya seemed less than experienced, she voiced no concerns.  “Don’t worry.  It’ll all come back to you.  After you’ve had six or seven, you’ll be nursing one, luggin’ one on your hip, an’ swattin’ one out of trouble without turning a hair.  You sure birthed this one easy.  You don’t look like you got child-bearin’ hips, but she didn’t give you a bit of trouble.  I got a lot wider hips than you, but when I had my Marthy………..”  Anya enjoyed the tenor of her friend’s conversation, but was lost in admiration for the tiny baby.  Her ears perked up when Emma moved on to a discussion of the baby’s size.  “I do believe that’s the smallest, healthy baby I ever seen.  My Melvin would’a made two of her, but he was a big ol’ lunker.  I swear, this baby could sleep in a shoe box.!” 

Joe looked alarmed.  “But she’s big enough, ain’t she?  I’m a big feller, but my ma never weighed ninety pounds and she could’a whooped a bear.”

“No, Joe.  She’s breathin’ fine, her color’s good, and she’s nursing like there ain’t no tomorrow.  This baby’s just little, not puny.” Emma laughed at his concerns.

Anya acted huffy.  “Now don’t go making my baby out to be too little.  Give her time and she’ll set you straight.  I ain’t never been big as nothin’ but I can take care of you two if you keep picking on my baby.”  She smiled and nuzzled its sweetness.

Emma laughed and Joe looked alarmed.  “I ain’t talkin’ against the baby.  I just got worried when Emma said she was too little.”

Emma threw a towel at him.  “I ain’t never said  nothin’ was wrong with being little.  I was just saying she’s smaller than them buffaloes I birthed.  I think that was right smart of Anya to cook up a little one.” They all got a good laugh out of that.  “I do believe I’d keep her away from other folks till she catches up a little so she don’t catch something.  What do y’all reckon on naming this big ol’ gal?”

Anya looked to Joe.  He thought long before speaking, “Well, if you ain’t opposed, Anya.  I’d like to name her after two of the finest women I ever knowed, Rose for my mama and Anya for you.”

Anya looked at him with love.  “I’d be right proud to call her that.”

Hard Time Marrying Part 25

big-wildflower

They got home well before dark.  While Joe and Little Joe milked and tended the stock, Anya put Sally in her sling and walked across the meadow down to the creek.  The cow and calf grazed near the willows, the calf didn’t have to be kept up to protect the milk, though all it enjoyed was its mother’s company since she’d gone dry.  Joe hadn’t bothered to scythe down the weeds since he didn’t have to worry about the coming calf.  The stand of Queen Anne’s lace waved its graceful heads, its regal beauty given no hint of its hidden use.  Anya had often gathered wildflowers on her walk, bringing back an apron full of Black-Eyed Susans, bright Indian Blanket, and Texas Bluebonnets, loving the way their colors brightened the cabin.  She’d never been especially fond of white, but today, filled her apron with the lacy white flowers and nothing else.

Emma had sent home enough chicken and dumplings for another meal.  With biscuits from breakfast and Emma’s conserve, it made a festive supper.  Little Joe licked his plate and Sally kept squealing and reaching for the conserve, long after she plastered herself with hers.  They laughed as they cleaned the little ones up.  The children were reluctant to settle in bed after their exciting day and the hilarity at supper.  Joe lay on the cot till his little namesake was still while Anya rocked Sally.

He came back to the table and took Anya’s hand.  Looking pointedly at the pot of white flowers, he said, “You want to be careful with those.  You know they made the cow lose her calf.  I don’t want nothin’ happenin’ to you.  A baby is just a baby.”

Anya started crying.  “Joe, I don’t even know if I want this baby.  I was hopin’ things could go on the way they were.  You have already taken in your dead wife’s little ones and now this.  This baby was forced on me.  I don’t know if I can do right by it, let alone love it.  I think it might be better if you let me do what I need to do and after, if you want, we can figure somethin’ out.  We can make a clean start or I can leave once I am back on my feet if you want. We ain’t married and you done took care of me a long time.  You don’t owe me nothin’.  You could always look for a woman to come stay and help out till Sally’s bigger.  The West is full of women who need somebody to do for an’ a place to stay.”

Joe was a man of few words.  “Anya, I know what it is to be alone.  I never knew my pa, these younguns don’t know their pa.  You done without a ma. The world don’t have to be such a cold place. You’re are a good woman an’ I seen how you love these little fellers.  I want you and that little feller you’re a’carrying if that’s the way you see it.”  He picked up his hat to go to the barn.

Anya looked from Sally to Joe as a tear dropped on Sally’s blonde head.  She reached out, putting a hand on Joe’s shoulder.  “Stay, Joe.  It’s time Sally started sleepin’ in with Little Joe.”

Tenderly, Joe tucked Sally in on the far side of the cot with Little Joe, then put out the light.

Hard Time Marrying Part 16

Anya lay awake a long time thinking after Joe went to the barn and the kids slept, the baby snuggled up warm and sweet in the curve of her body.   In his rope bed near the fire, the boy cried out for his mama in his sleep and whimpered without waking.   Anya went to him, smoothed his hair and rubbed his back till he went back to sleep.  His warm little hand sought hers and she felt stirrings of pity for him, even though she tried not to.  She’d already lost the battle of staying detached from the little girl, and was beginning to wonder if she could take the poor motherless thing when she left though she saw the folly in that.  She had no friends, nowhere to go and no way to care for the child. Not only that, she might have killed the peddler.  The law was hard on a woman.  They might be looking to hang her right now. She needed to get far enough away to disappear in a sizable town. The baby would just hold her back. A woman alone would have a hard enough time providing for herself, even if she had nothing to hide. She had to get as far away as possible and seek work as a housekeeper or cook, since that was all she knew.  Having barely been to school, she couldn’t be a schoolmarm.  She’d had enough of men to know she’d never marry.  She needed to get to town where folks had enough money and house to need help. Her prospects were poor, but maybe when she got to Meadow Creek Church she’d meet up with somebody who could help get her on the road to something else.  It would break her heart, but there’s no way she could take the tiny girl.

Out in the barn, Joe was thinking his own gloomy thoughts.  He didn’t want Anya to go.  He started to hope she might stay and they could be a family.  Even though Anya hadn’t warmed to him, he’d gotten a little taste of family watching her doing for the baby and doing about the house.  It had been such a pleasure to come in last night and find supper laid out.  No one had done that for him since Ma died.  When Anya left, he and the boy manage, but who would do for the baby?  She was far too young to go around with him while he worked.

 

You Poor Baby (Part 2)

vintage baby

part 1      https://atomic-temporary-73629786.wpcomstaging.com/2015/07/11/you-poor-baby/

Furious at finding her washing machine packed to the rim with freshly laundered diapers mixed with freshly- laundered gobs of poop, Mother roused Carol from where she snored on the sofa, oblivious to her miserable, bawling baby. “Carol, come here. Let me show you how to use this washer! You can’t just throw filthy diapers in it without rinsing this stuff out.” Mother got a tub, made Carol scoop the poopy diapers out and clean the washer, then sent Carol out to rinse the dirty diapers under the faucet before bringing them back to the washer. “Be sure you dump that dirty water from the tub behind the chicken house, not in the back yard. You may as well get the rest of this mess soaking.” She pointed to the pile of poopy diapers that had not yet had a ride in her abused washer. Carol looked furiously at Phyllis and me as she stormed off to do this demeaning task, clearly much better delegated to underlings like us.

We did have to tend her poor, miserable baby while she slaved over the diaper rinsing, but that was better than rinsing out poopy diapers ranging from rock-hard lumps to runny diarrhea, depending on the vintage. The stench was horrendous, as evidenced by Carol’s retching. I have no doubt Carol was sick when she came back in. She took to her bed(our sofa) to recover. Clearly accustomed to help with her baby, she was reluctant to leave her repose to wash bottles and prepare formula, preferring to call out for one of of kids to “bring me a bottle!” when he cried. The first time, Mother let the hungry little guy have a bottle, despite the fact it was an expensive, hypoallergenic formula prescribed for her own tiny baby. She quickly pointed the case of milk she’d bought for Carol’s baby, the kind Carol requested. “Oh this will be fine,” Carol said. “He likes it!”

“Carol, you need to fix your own bottles! I bought you what you asked for. This stuff is forty cents a can!” Mother explained.

Carol was clearly offended. She dawdled a bit after he finished his bottle, put him down, and shut herself in the bathroom for a good crying session. Eventually, she came out and made a collect call to her mother, insisting she come, NOW! Mama couldn’t come, NOW! More crying on the phone. We were stuck together till the weekend. Carol had no problems leaving his bottles lying about to sour after baby was satisfied. Should he cry out when a sour bottle sat handy, she had no qualms about trying to get him to take it.

The next three days lasted an eternity. At my parent’s insistence, Carol did end up giving her baby good care while they waited for Mama, but she turned him over to Mama as soon as she arrived. His bottom had healed, he’d plumped up, and even played a bit with good care. Poor little guy didn’t get much of a pass. He was soon back home to be joined by a brother and sister in rapid succession.

Alas, Carol’s marriage fell apart, but before long she found another man and launched into her addiction to having babies she had no interest or ability to care for, eventually delivering eleven sad children. At a family reunion once, I heard someone ask how long she was going to keep having babies. She replied, “As long as God wants me to.” It was heartbreaking to see her children suffer from her neglect and ignorance.

July 29: Happy National Chicken Wing Day

Who would have ever thought chicken wings would need their own day? When I was a kid, chicken wings would have only come before back and neck on the request list. Mother broke the leg-shaped portion off and gave it to babies long before they learned about drumsticks. Of course, she wrestled off the gristly end so they wouldn’t choke. It served as a kind of greasy pacifier to be pried out of their grubby list fist after they went to sleep. Who’d have thought chicken would be a sought after specialty treat?