Breeding Like Rabbits Read online

  “One more question: as my baby’s been nursing, my lower abdomen has felt funny; it’s like a pulling together—a squeezing. Is something wrong?”

  “Oh no, that’s a good thing. Your baby’s nursing is helping your insides get back in shape again.” The nurse turned, looked back at Britt. “You two finish up here. I’ll be back for the little one in twenty minutes.”

  Britt looked down at the nursing baby, but she wasn’t nursing anymore; she was sound asleep yet making the cutest sucking motion with her lips. What a darling! And her head is already getting more in shape. Another thought struck her: She’s mine—my responsibility for the next eighteen years! The reality of that thought literally took her breath away. What have I gotten myself into? Then the baby stretched and made little fussing noises, and Britt felt soft and mushy inside.

  Another nurse came in, this one bearing a vase holding a large bouquet of white carnations. She put the flowers on Britt’s night table. “Someone thinks a lot of you.”

  “My husband, Andy. They must have called him about the baby.” Smiling, the nurse left, and who should walk in then but Andy.

  “Andy! Come and look at the baby.” But Andy was frozen in place, taking in the sight of his wife nursing his baby. He tiptoed over to the bed, white sailor hat in hand. He bent a knee as if to genuflect but stopped himself.

  He kissed the top of Britt’s head. “Britt, how are you? Was it very bad?”

  “I’m okay. Mother was right, you do start to forget as soon as you hold your little one, and the doctor gave me something called an epidural just when it was getting bad. It completely knocked me out for the hardest part.”

  Andy looked at the baby. “What’s wrong with her head?” Britt told him what the nurse had said about a forceps delivery and that the head would get back to normal very soon. “In fact,” she added, “it looks more rounded down already. Our problem now is to name this baby; calling her ‘baby’ takes away all her specialness. What about Josette after your mother? Or Esther after my grandma? Then there’s Sara. I’ve always liked that name.”

  “Sara, let’s call her Sara. A little name for our little number one.”

  “Sara does fit her, and it’s biblical and modern at the same time.” Britt looked down. “Sara, welcome to the world.” At the sound of her name, Sara didn’t even blink her tightly closed eyes. The nurse came in and carried her back to the nursery.

  Andy and Britt were alone, not counting the five new mothers in the other five beds. “Andy, you are wonderful. Thank you so much for the flowers; I love carnations. They don’t smell like funerals the way roses do, and they last longer. Thank you for remembering it’s Mother’s Day, and I’m a mother.”

  Andy looked at the flowers. He hadn’t even noticed them. “I didn’t send flowers, Britt—I wish I would have.” He saw the tip of a little white envelope sticking out among the blooms, and he pulled it out and read the card out loud: “Congratulations!” And it was signed, “Peter Lundstrom.”

  “Britt, these are from Peter—he’s the guy who came to dinner at our house. He was our first guest. I wish I hadn’t told him that you’d gone into labor. I blabbed it around when I went back to the ship. I was so nervous.”

  “That’s all right, Andy. Look on the bright side. You won’t forget to send me flowers when we have our next baby.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  With slow and careful steps, Britt climbed the stairs to their second-floor apartment, Sara clasped in her arms. Andy, hanging on to Britt’s suitcase in one hand, the diaper bag in the other, and a doughnut pillow circling his right forearm, followed close behind. If anyone should falter or, God forbid, fall, she knew he’d just drop what he was holding and come to the rescue. I’m glad I gave the bouquet of white carnations to the woman in the bed close to mine—one less thing for him to hang onto.

  They made it—safe on the second floor. Andy put down his burdens, unlocked the door, and swung it wide open. He bent and scooped up his little family and carried them over the threshold. Home at last.

  Sara proved to be a fussy baby—did she have colic? Britt was a nervous new mother, unsure of herself. Could Sara sense this? Drink in Britt’s emotions as she nursed? Or did fate demand a payback time for the grief she gave her own mother by not being an easy baby? The old “what goes around comes around” thing. Britt persevered and gained confidence. She only fell asleep during one 2:00 a.m. feeding, and she tried hard not to resent the loss of sleep when she had to nurse Sara again at 5:00 a.m.

  The first baby bath was traumatic for the young parents. Britt placed the bathing basin with its three inches of warm water on the kitchen table. Andy sat on a chair at the head of the table. With all supplies at hand, Britt undressed Sara and eased her into the tub. She happened to notice Andy’s hands—they were clutching and reclutching each other. He’s wringing his hands. I never saw anyone actually do that before. Maybe I’d be doing it too if I didn’t have to keep a tight hold on this slippery fish. Sara was the calm one. After the bath, Britt wrapped Sara in a bath towel and looked at Andy, and he looked at her. Sweat beaded their faces—they were exhausted. Britt fed Sara, and she slept an hour more than usual.

  Britt was learning to know Sara, to know that it was okay to let her cry and fuss for a little while, that that was what she needed before she could fall asleep. By three weeks, mother and baby were pretty much in sync. Britt found that she, herself, in order to be a good mother and wife, had to squeeze in a nap each day. When to take the nap was the question, as Sara sometimes slept only a little over an hour, and other times three hours. She learned to lie down at the very beginning of a “Sara” nap. If Sara slept for more than an hour, Britt considered that her bonus time, and she made good use of it. She had applied for a library card shortly after she’d moved into the Spring Street apartment, and now, if Sara took a long nap, she was even able to get some reading done.

  By three weeks, Britt packed away her doughnut pillow, and she managed to keep to a pretty good schedule that included sleep and enjoying her baby. This changed as quickly and as dramatically as a loud clap of thunder when Andy said, “My mother and sister are coming out together for a visit. Mom will stay two weeks, and Mary six—it’s her summer vacation from teaching second grade.”

  Britt could have killed him on the spot. “How could you? Sara doesn’t even sleep through the night yet! You should have asked me first.”

  “Why? This is my home, the home that you found and moved into without even asking me. To tell the truth, I never thought I’d have to ask you for permission.”

  “That was different. I was forced to move—we couldn’t stay there if we had a baby.”

  “I would have been home before Sara was born. I could have helped you move.”

  This sounds like payback time. “I had help—my friends helped.”

  “Okay, fine. I guess you didn’t need me.” Andy folded his arms across his chest and lowered his black eyebrows. “This is our home now. I can invite people over here if I want to.”

  “But you’ll be on the ship at least half the time. I’ll be stuck with your people.”

  “Stuck with ‘my people’? They’re my mother and sister for God’s sake!” He lifted his arms, and his palms pressed hard on each side of his head.

  “But they are strangers to me, they really are.” Britt grabbed a hank of her hair and began twisting it. “Your mother is so quiet—like a closed book. I never quite know what she’s thinking.” Just then Sara woke up and began to cry. Britt picked her up and hugged her. If I didn’t have you, I’d run away and never come back. I’d get a divorce. “Your sister doesn’t like me. At least I get that feeling. When we were in high school together and we both happened to be in the girls’ lavatory at the same time, she’d stare at me. I always imagined that she was thinking, That’s the girl that’s trying to snap up my brother.”

  “That’s cr
azy. They can help you with Sara.”

  “I don’t want help with Sara. I want to take care of my child all by myself. They’ll just interfere and make more work. I’ll have to talk to them, feed them, and entertain them. When you’re on the ship, I’ll be dealing with strangers.”

  “They’re not strangers!” Andy turned and stomped out, away from Britt.

  While his mother and sister were staying with them, Andy bought wine, steak, mushrooms—things they didn’t usually buy because they were too expensive. Britt felt some resentment at this, but she knew he only wanted to show them that he’d “made it.” He did help with food preparation when he didn’t have to be on the ship, and Britt was thankful for that. She was not a confident cook. Timing everything to be done at the same time when everything seemed to have a different preparation time and cook time was tricky. Sometimes it worked out, but more often it did not.

  Sara wasn’t cooperating. She was crying more and sleeping less. Could she feel Britt’s anxiety? Josette, Andy’s mother, never missed a chance to say, “You don’t have enough milk. She’s hungry; that’s why she’s crying.”

  One morning Britt woke with a hard, painful left breast, and she felt feverish. She let Sara nurse in spite of the pain, thinking that, as with a cow, she hadn’t been milked enough, and that was the cause of her pain. The next day, however, she went to the Navy Hospital and saw a doctor. She had mastitis, a breast infection, and was given medication and told to take an aspirin for the pain. He asked her if she’d been under stress and if she was getting enough sleep. Are you kidding? I’m a new mother, first time, and we have relatives staying with us. Of course I’m stressed and tired. He told her to make an appointment for her six-week checkup and to try to put on some weight.

  Britt had never felt so low. I’m a failure. I tried to do everything right—nurse my baby so she’d get the best start in life, and now I can’t nurse her because I don’t want her ingesting my medication every time she nurses. I give up. I’ll do what Josette wants me to. Put her on formula. Josette never nursed her babies; they always got formula. Does she think nursing is too animallike? Or does the sight of someone nursing make her jealous? Britt headed for the library and took out a book that had a chapter on how to prepare baby formula. She sat down at a table and took notes. The librarian, an older woman, checked out her book, and when she noticed what it was about, she gave Britt further advice. She told her that she’d had three children—had nursed the first two, but her milk dried up when her father died, almost right after her last one was born. She had to turn to formula. “Be sure to put all your equipment into boiling water for ten minutes. Don’t forget that the baby will need extra vitamins when you use formula.” Britt thanked her, left the library, and drove to a drugstore.

  She bought bottles, nipples, a bottle brush, and a canner—blue with white specks, in which to sterilize the glass bottles and other equipment used. Next stop was the grocery store. Here she bought cans of evaporated milk, a bottle of clear, light Karo syrup, pabulum, and baby vitamins. The librarian had told her that vitamins were a necessity now that Sara would not be getting all she needed from her mother’s milk. Britt looked at all she’d bought. This would be a lot more complicated and time-consuming than nursing, and it wouldn’t be as good for Sara. But if I truly don’t have enough milk? Maybe my mother didn’t have enough either and that’s why I cried so much, and maybe why I bit her once, and she bit me back—at least that’s what she told me years later.

  Before Josette left for home, Sara was baptized with Mary as her sponsor. All her life, Sara can tell people that she was baptized in the same church in which President John F. Kennedy was married. Look how good she is in spite of having to wear a white, scratchy lace gown—the same gown that Hannah and I wore. Perhaps putting her on the bottle was best after all. She’s calmer. Mary, Sara’s sponsor, held her over the baptismal font as the priest poured water on her head and said, “I baptize you, Sara Joan Hughes, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Sara did not utter a peep.

  Grandma Hughes, Josette, went back to the Midwest shortly after the baptism, and Sara, Mary, and Britt hung out together. One night, Britt invited her old friends from work over to the apartment for waffles. She made her mother’s favorite recipe, “Elegant Waffles.” The recipe called for the eggs to be separated and the whites beaten until they were stiff, and then they were folded into the batter. This made for a tender, fluffy waffle, truly elegant. She topped the waffles with strawberries and whipped cream. Everyone had a good time, including Mary, and they all loved the waffles, especially Carmela.

  It was hard to get around much with a baby, but they took turns exploring the shops and boutiques on Bellevue and the galleries on Spring Street. Wherever they went, people would smile at Sara. She was a beautiful, smiley little girl, with curly hair and brown eyes. Inevitably someone would turn to Mary and say, “You have a beautiful daughter,” or “You’re the mother, aren’t you?” It was those brown eyes. Mary had brown eyes too, while Britt’s were green, like her mother’s. When this happened, Britt would feel a stab of jealousy—or was it simply irritation at someone’s mistake?—and say, “I’m her mother.”

  Six weeks flew by—time for Britt’s post-childbirth checkup. Mary was still there, so Britt left her with Sara and went alone. The doctor said all was in order and she and her husband could now have “relations.” He also said, “Don’t get pregnant right away. If you want another baby, wait at least a year and gain some weight while waiting. Get your strength back.”

  On the way home, Britt stopped at an office supply store and bought some graph paper. She stopped at the drugstore where she bought a thermometer. She wanted to start on her rhythm method charting right away. Her book, Catholic Marriage and Family Life, said that she’d have to take her temperature the first thing every morning—not even Sara could come first. This would be difficult because Sara was an early riser—six o’clock. Britt would have to set her alarm for a quarter to six and take her temperature then. That’s why she wanted to start right away, while Mary was still there, so that if Sara woke up even earlier than usual, Mary could pick her up.

  When Britt got home, she put her purchases on the kitchen table along with her book, Catholic Marriage and Family Life. “Mary, come into the kitchen for a few minutes.”

  “Hey, I see you bought some things.” She sat down and picked up the book.

  “One day, Mary, when you are a wife, you’ll probably need these things.” Britt picked up the thermometer. “Andy and I want to space our babies’ births, so we’re going to use the rhythm method, as explained in that book you’re holding. During the times I’m not menstruating, I have to take my temperature every morning before doing anything else. This is a rectal thermometer—it’s more accurate than a mouth one—that’s why I chose it.”

  “Disgusting. What’s the graph paper for?”

  “I’ll write in all the dates in a month across the top and then all the normal temperature variations, putting 97.2 at the bottom and then increasing by .2 going up the side until I get to 99.6—a separate sheet for each month. Each day’s temperature will be a dot on my graph, and then by connecting the dots, I’ll be able to see clearly when my temperature dropped. The drop would mean that in a day or two I’ll have my period, and it also means that I have a day or two of infertility. When I’m over my period, the next four or five days should also be an infertile time.” I used to call my period “the curse.” I never will again. It’s a blessing.

  Mary grimaced like Andy did when he changed a loaded diaper, “Disgusting and complicated. There’s got to be other ways to control pregnancy and space births.”

  “For a Roman Catholic woman who is determined to follow the rules of the church, there is only one other way, and that is to have sex only when you want to have a baby. Mother Nature, however, provides an additional way that is supposed to be 98 percent effective: after a
baby is born, provide all of the baby’s nourishment at the breast—absolutely no supplemental feedings of water or formula, day or night, and little or no pacifier use until your baby is six months old. After the baby is six months old, you could become pregnant again even if you are still breastfeeding, and your chances of getting pregnant increase as the months go by and your baby starts eating solid food and nurses less.”

  “Those are terrible choices. I guess I’ll stay single and become a career teacher. Good luck to you and Andy. You’ll need it.”

  One of the last things Mary did before returning home was to sign her teaching contract for the upcoming school year. Britt glanced over as she signed. She’ll make $3,700. For that amount of money, I think I could get over my shyness and learn to talk to a room full of students—little students. When Sara starts school, perhaps I will go back and earn my teaching degree.

  Alone at last. The little Andy Hughes family—no company in the apartment and a baby that slept through the night—was content. It wouldn’t be that way for long, because in a month Andy would be on the ship and on his way to the Norfolk Naval Shipyard in Portsmouth, Virginia, where the ship would take part in training operations for two weeks. Now they would just love each other and forget about the rocky time they’d been through.

  That night as they said their prayers together and kissed good night, they reached out and held each other. Britt lifted her left leg and wrapped it around Andy, drawing his lower body into the embrace, but it could go no further. The line on the graph had not dropped, and they were both determined to follow the church-sanctioned rhythm method. One thing the hug did do was tell the other, in body language, that the bad feelings were gone, all was forgiven. I was angry at Andy and briefly considered leaving him, but that was foolish—we have a baby to take care of. I can’t do it alone, and I don’t want to—I love Andy. Anyway, that’s water under the bridge now.

  Britt took her temperature first thing in the morning every day that Andy was away, charting it every day too. The day before Andy was due to arrive back in Newport from Norfolk, the “connect the dots” line took a dive. She would be getting her period in a couple of days. We can have “relations”—what a strange way to put it. Andy, you are one lucky guy. She picked up his picture from the top of the dresser and kissed his smiling face.