Andrew

My son Andrew was born two days and 44 years ago. I baked some bread for him the day before and took it to his house, where he had been all day because of his foot. But this is not about that, although I do think he should have the foot x-rayed. Not exactly about his foot.

This is about him, Andrew, my fourth child, third son. I should say our son, his dad's and mine.

Yes, my mother was visiting when Andrew was born, and, of course, she had to leave the next day to go home. She had already been with us for more than a week. Can I help it if a baby is born at an inconvenient time? Inconvenient for my mother? No. I think the fault is my oldest child's. He came a week before his due-date. But no one else did, even though we always thought it might happen again.

My mother was in the hospital with me, got to hold Andrew and look him over. She liked him. Of course. He was a healthy, big boy, weighing 9 lbs 10 oz. No cinch to deliver but worth the work. Andrew was good looking and good-natured. I have told elsewhere of my foolish mistakes regarding feeding him. It is too painful to recount, recount again, and so I won't. I will say that Andrew, when his mother finally gave him enough to eat, grew and kept his good nature, for which I am so very grateful. Not kidding about that. What a good boy.

Andrew walked at eight months. Something I thought was pretty remarkable. I have photos to prove it, so don't doubt me.

I'm not sure Andrew would approve of what I'm about to say. But here it is. He is a sweet boy. It's that word, sweet. But I'm his mother, and I can call him a sweet boy. He's a man, I know, but he has a sweet, kindly nature. He's gentle. And he's smart, a problem solver and a wise money manager. These qualities are important. All of them. Important to me.

Andrew went back to school some years ago and finished. That's important, too. While in school, he developed a love of literature, mostly the British novel. I suppose one day he'll read some American stuff, but I don't really care. I think he likes British literature because it appeals to his temperament. And he likes how smart the people were--characters and authors.

I am proud of my fourth child. He's a good dad and a good husband and other good things. Like a good athlete, although he can't prove it right now. His foot, you know. But he played many sports and did them well. I remember. I know he does, too. And I will always see him running down the street in Boise, reaching the finish line ahead of his dad those many years ago. I love that boy.

The Name Is Lola

Yesterday was my mother's birthday, March 2, 1899. That's 116 years ago. The number shocks me, but the way I remember her has no number attached. She is without age in my memory.

Isn't that the way we see ourselves? Inside we are simply who we are, and I say that person has no age.  Only when we're forced to examine our lives in some way do we have to acknowledge the reality of our age. Of our aging.

About my mother--we all called her Mama, and that is how she signed letters to us. My dad often called her "My Little Mama" and nobody minded that, although I have heard people who know a lot say a husband should never call his wife Mother or Mama or whatever.

Again, about my mother, I was taller than Mama for a long time, like from age 11 on.  We all were.  It wasn't difficult.  She was short and conscious of her height, I know, because she used to say, "Short girls are never beautiful, Carol. Only tall girls with long necks are beautiful." 

For a while, I thought she was talking about me, encouraging me to grow tall. I already had a long neck, but I don't remember seeing it as a mark of beauty.

Now I think she must have been talking about her own lack of height.  Actually, in the grand scheme of things, her size doesn’t matter, but it’s part of what I remember, a point of pride, really, because she was so much person in that little bundle.

Maybe she was trying to make me think she wasn't beautiful, one of those things mothers say when a glance in the mirror brings them up short. (No pun intended.) If she was no beauty I never knew it.

My oldest daughter was born on my mother's birthday, 69 years later. We lived in Caldwell, Idaho, much to my mother's disapproval. After all, her parents had moved away from Idaho for her sake, Utah offering education, and music education in particular, not available to her in rural eastern  or rural western Idaho. And my parents had moved us to California for similar reasons. Wonderful decision, I say.

Well, Caldwell notwithstanding, my mother was visiting, asking those important questions I would also hear at other times. "Can't you have this baby, Carol?" Mama had come early, probably my fault, and needed to go home. I did what I could. I walked, and at my doctor's appointment I mentioned my mother's need for an expeditious birth. Was there any way to bring that about? Of course, I knew there was not. Babies come when they come, or so I thought.

But he gave me some tiny pills I was to put, one at a time, between cheek and gum--no not tobacco--buccal pitocin.

As I recall, he didn't explain much--or anything--to me, and obviously I was too ignorant and too trusting to ask.

Any woman who has been induced knows that the labor, or what feels like labor, may begin, but the contractions are not quite contractions. The pains get you nowhere or next to nowhere. But finally, two days later, I think, just barely on my mother's birthday, my first baby girl came to this earth. Of course, I named her Lola, after my mother.

Like the original Lola, this Lola plays the piano very well. Very well indeed. And she is a natural teacher, very bright and capable. Unlike her grandmother, who was 4'9" and maybe another 3/4 inch, maybe, the Lola I raised is tall. I am proud of her 5'7" and very happy to say she has a long neck.