Breeding Like Rabbits Read online

  CHAPTER

  11

  “The blessing” did not come when expected. Maybe it was just late—Britt’s cycle had been out of commission for a while. A month went by, and then another, still no period. And Britt hated the smell of coffee. How could she be pregnant? Her temperature had dropped. She had to find out for sure. If she were pregnant, at least she could quit taking her temperature every morning—get a little more sleep. She went to the doctor the third week in October.

  Every time a different doctor, but this one didn’t tell her to gain weight; he just put her in the stirrups and felt around. “Yes, I do feel something. I’d say you’re at least two months pregnant, maybe a bit more. I put your due date around the middle of May.”

  “Oh no, Sara will only be a year old. She might not even be walking. My mother said I didn’t start walking until I was fifteen months old. I might actually have to tote around both children. Neither child will get enough care or attention. It’s not fair. It’s not right.”

  The doctor helped her down from the examination table. “There is protection available, something you or your husband could consider, you know.”

  “Not for us there isn’t. He wouldn’t use anything. His aunt is a nun. The only thing we can do is use the rhythm method. I was using that, taking my temperature every morning, but I must have goofed up.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. That method has a success rate of 60 to 85 percent. In your case, it’d be even lower because your husband is in the navy where schedules can be erratic. And I’m sure your sleeping hours aren’t always regular with a three-month-old to care for. That can cause your temperature to fluctuate.”

  Britt was thankful for the doctor’s honesty and concern, but she was disappointed—she’d tried so hard. It wasn’t fair.

  Andy’s reaction to the news? Zilch—he just seemed to accept the inevitable, but then he didn’t have to get up for night feedings, change poopy diapers, or sit up with a sick child.

  Britt, wanting to get some show of emotion out of Andy, said, “Don’t forget to send me flowers after this one is born—you don’t want Peter Lundstrom showing you up again with another bouquet of white carnations.”

  “That won’t happen. He’s out of the picture. He was transferred to a bigger ship, a destroyer tender, a couple of months ago. I’ll probably never see him again.”

  Christmas that year was a family affair—much different from the last one when she’d been alone. Andy bought a little tree, and Britt trimmed it with cranberry and popcorn ropes. They didn’t want to buy decorations because they’d be moving again. Rumors were flying about a six-month cruise coming up. If true, Christmas decorations would be just another box to lug around. Britt broke down though and bought an angel for the top of the tree and a package of tinsel. Their first pictures to share were taken in front of this tree. They took turns holding Sara, who was so cute now with her curly light brown hair and dark brown eyes, while the other would snap a picture. Britt wished that they could have taken a real family picture by having a friend take Andy, Sara, and her all together, but both Jan and Krista were gone—such was military life.

  Not long after Christmas, they got the news. Andy’s ship was going into dry dock for repairs at the Chelsea Navy Yard. They’d be relocating to Chelsea, Massachusetts, across the Mystic River from the city of Boston. They would try to find an apartment in Chelsea that was close to the Naval Hospital. Britt would need prenatal care.

  An apartment was hard to find. People hesitated to rent to enlisted men and their families—a repeat of the Newport experience. You took what you could get and made the best of it. The apartment had only two rooms, a kitchen and a large bedroom with a sink in it and a bath off to the side. The place stank of urine and old furniture—smells impossible to get rid of completely. The first thing Britt did when they moved in was scrape dried egg yolks off the inside walls of the refrigerator. The second thing was to scrub down the bathtub and the two sinks—the bathroom sink was responsible for the strong urine smell.

  The kitchen had a sink, a stove, a Formica table and a couple of chairs, some counter and cabinet space—standard equipment. In addition, it had a tall, glass-fronted china closet. Sara would crawl by it and put her hands on the glass, leaving fingerprints. This irritated her dad to such an extent that he slapped her little fingers each time.

  “Andy, what are you doing? She’s just a little girl. She doesn’t understand why you’re slapping her fingers. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  Andy didn’t see it that way. “She has to learn to obey when she’s young or she won’t when she’s older.”

  “Do you want her to think of you as a mean daddy when you’re gone? Don’t you want her to miss you?” Britt was angry, but she didn’t want to fight. In a couple of weeks, he’d ship out and be gone for six months.

  When Britt told her parents that she was pregnant again, her mother sent her a medium-sized crib. The twins, William and Owen, were now four years old, and they slept in twin beds. They put the crib, now Sara’s crib, in the bedroom along with their new portable twenty-one-inch, metal—silver and blue—television set, complete with a swivel stand. A large brown chest of drawers and the double bed came with the furnished apartment and completed the room’s furnishings.

  They sat on the bed to watch television. One of their favorite shows was the Garry Moore Show. If they got tired of sitting on the bed (it was hard on the back), they put a blanket down on the floor and sat on it, which was hard on both the back and the bottom, but it gave Sara room to play. Sometimes they even ate their evening meal sitting on the blanket—an indoor picnic.

  Britt experienced her first migraine headache one indoor picnic night. She was close to five months pregnant, sitting on the floor, eating and watching television. Soon she couldn’t stand the light from the screen, pain throbbed above her right eye, and her stomach churned. She lowered her body to the floor and groaned, pressing her hand to her throbbing right temple. Mother had migraines. I can’t remember her not having them. Did she first get them when she was pregnant with me? I never realized how she suffered until now. Sometimes I thought she was even faking it to get out of her least favorite thing—meal preparation. I wish I’d been kinder and more understanding. Well, at least Hannah and I learned to cook. She gave herself up to the waves of pain, knowing that it was one more thing she’d have to accept.

  When she was feeling better, she tried to make the apartment more livable, but she did not bother with hanging pictures or sewing anything. When the ship left dry dock, it would be going to sea for six months, taking Andy away. They would be visiting ports throughout the world—Andy would get to see so much. She and Sara would fly to Britt’s parental home where Sara could get acquainted with her grandparents. Her father had said, “As long as you have no more than three children, you can come home.” An airline ticket was purchased and dated two weeks before Britt’s delivery date. Only one ticket needed, as Sara flew free—under two years old, she qualified as a lap baby. Britt would deliver the soon-to-be-born baby in her own hometown. That was the plan.

  If only they could go outside! But there was no yard. Britt and Sara were housebound. She had no friends and didn’t know where to go to make any. She read Sara’s books to her and played with her, but Sara took two naps a day, and what could she do then? Often she’d just stare into space, sitting on the bed as she was doing now. What happened to the “marry a sailor and see the world”? Her world had shrunk to a couple of stinky rooms. She was trapped, and she had only herself to blame. She was the one who had wanted to quit school because she couldn’t decide on a major. She had wanted adventure, wanted to see the world, but she hadn’t wanted to do it alone. She took those wedding vows, not even sure that she was in love, and by doing so anchored herself to a sailor—thank goodness he would not always be in the navy. She’d imagined their life would be so different. Now she was caught in a trap�
�the tender trap of love. Britt loved Sara, and she knew she’d love this new little life. She loved Andy too, though sometimes he made her angry. Enough of this wool gathering—it doesn’t do any good.

  Britt hauled herself to her feet, her arms reaching behind her, palms pressing the small of her back. She arched her back. “Umm that feels good.” She was so sick of being pregnant, of sharing her body with a parasite that kept getting heavier and heavier. She wanted her body to belong to her again. Sara woke up from her nap and sat up, looking at her. Britt picked her up and blew raspberry sounds into her neck wrinkles until Sara laughed. “We’ll get you changed and then some lunch. What would you like, smashed peas and chocolate pudding? How does that sound, young lady?” Sara clapped her hands. “Let’s get those hands washed first.”

  Britt waited for Andy to come home for supper. Right now he was watching a baseball game at Fenway Park—Red Sox versus the Milwaukee Braves. She envied him. He could go places and see things.

  Andy bounded into the apartment, a big grin on his face. “I really got my money’s worth! Before the game, they had a homerun contest between Ted Williams and Eddie Matthews! It was the greatest.”

  “I’m sure it was.” The dishes bounced and clanged as Britt, her lips clamped together in a straight line, set the table.

  Britt bent over and grabbed the handhold projections on the side of the television and tried to hoist it off its stand. Warm liquid soaked her underpants and ran down her leg. No time to time contractions. This baby was coming three weeks early.

  All day Andy and Britt had been packing. They had to decide what Britt would take on the plane with her and what they’d ship back to Minnesota. Then she tried to lift the TV, and her water broke.

  Andy grabbed Sara, Britt grabbed her packed suitcase, and they got in the car. Tires squealed as they careened around corners. Britt was sure they’d set a speed record by the time they reached Chelsea Navy Hospital.

  A nurse whisked her off, leaving Andy and Sara to provide information at the admissions desk.

  First, the enema. By now Britt was having some serious labor pains, making the enema even more pressure painful than when she had Sara. Then the shower.

  “Leave me alone,” she said, but the nurse would not leave her alone. She was pushed into the shower. Britt was angry, and so were her bowels—they let go in the shower, splattering the walls of the shower stall. Brit was not one bit sorry.

  Next stop, delivery room. Britt’s doctor injected her with what she now knew was an epidural—blessed relief.

  Six hours later, on April 14, a little boy, Daniel Andrew Hughes, was born, weighing in at five pounds, ten ounces—three weeks premature.

  Euphoria took over Britt’s being the next morning when she held her precious little baby. We have a daughter and a son. My body belongs to me again. Britt undid the blanket covering her skinny little baby. She wanted to check him out, wanted to see if all body parts were as they should be. Perfect, except for some brown stuff on one foot. Feces. What’s with those swabbies? Don’t they know how to swab down a little baby? This is awful.

  The hospital suggested that Britt not nurse Daniel, as the nurses on the floor were all corpsmen, and a nursing mother embarrassed them. She complied but later regretted that decision. Also, Daniel had jaundice and needed to lie under a special light until they left the hospital.

  Three days later, when Daniel no longer needed the special light, Britt signed them out, absolving the hospital of any responsibility. Andy took a peek at his newborn son through the nursery window, said goodbye to Britt, and then rushed to the airport to pick up his mother-in-law, Ingrid. After he dropped her off at the apartment, he rushed to the ship and sailed away.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Britt and her mother, Ingrid, had a lot to do before their flight to Minnesota on April 23—the date Britt had planned to fly home with Sara, but this time she’d be flying home with two lap children. She wouldn’t have been able to do it without her mother’s help.

  No bed waited for little Daniel. Not yet one year old, Sara needed her crib. Daniel, they’d thought, would be born in Minnesota. Britt thanked the powers that be for the large, old, sturdy chest of drawers in the bedroom. The deep bottom drawer would do as a baby bed. She and her mother lifted it out and put it on the kitchen table. Britt fashioned a mattress, using a folded-up quilt, and laid her baby in the drawer. In ten minutes, Daniel was sound asleep.

  Somehow Britt and Ingrid got everything done by the morning of the twenty-third, and that afternoon they found themselves high in the sky on their way to Minnesota—Daniel but nine days old. The stewardess, wearing a snappy uniform topped with a side cap, or garrison cap, and high heels, said he was the youngest passenger they’d ever had.

  Flying agreed with Daniel. If he fussed a bit, all Britt had to do was put her little finger in his mouth, and he sucked away and dozed. During the flight, Grandma Ingrid kept Sara busy, playing peek-a-boo with her and making her laugh by reciting nursery rhymes.

  Grandma had her hands full when Britt went to the bathroom. On the way back she peeked into the kitchen—all stainless steel. When it came to mealtime, they were offered a choice of grilled tenderloins with whipped potatoes or braised chicken with rice. They chose the chicken.

  As they were eating, Britt looked around at the other passengers. All were dressed up—suits, dresses. She was happy that she and her mother had worn suits and stockings—they looked good. Sara and Daniel earned their wings—metal pilot pins, a gift of the airline. Britt would give them the pins to keep when they were older, explaining what they were and how they came to get them.

  Time whizzed by that summer. Britt had two children to care for, and her mother had the four-year-old twins, William and Owen. Mother and daughter helped each other and got along better as two mothers than they ever had as mother and daughter.

  They soon found out that Daniel had an egg allergy, painful enough to prevent sleep for him and for his mother. Until Britt realized what was upsetting him, she spent a few nights walking the floor with him, trying to ease his stomach pain. Her mother would come up and “spell” her so Britt could get some sleep. Ingrid also accompanied Britt when she took Daniel to Dr. Karsten for his checkup, shots, and circumcision. The navy hospital could not circumcise him after his birth because he was jaundiced.

  On a later visit to Dr. Karsten, Ingrid turned to Britt with a suggestion that had long been on her mind. “Britt, you should talk to the doctor about birth control while we’re here.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that too, but Catholics can’t use any artificial means—if they do, it’s a mortal sin, which means that if they die without repenting, their souls go to hell.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You wouldn’t be killing anything—just repent and be forgiven after each time if it worries you so much.”

  “That wouldn’t work, because you have to repent and promise never to repeat the sin again.”

  “Britt, it’s not a sin to do what’s best for your family—to want to be a good and responsible mother.”

  “I know, but …”

  “Mrs. Anderson and Britt, Dr. Karsten is ready for you now.” They followed the nurse into the doctor’s office, Britt relieved that the conversation with her mother was over.

  She looked at Dr. Karsten and tried to get the lump out of her throat. “Um, Dr. Karsten, I-I don’t want to have any more children, at least for a while. I have my hands full with the two I’ve got, and my life isn’t very regular—my husband belongs to the US Navy, so I’ve been told. I never know for sure when he’ll be home. That really makes it hard to follow the rhythm method.”

  “You’re Lutheran, aren’t you—like your parents?”

  “No. My husband is Catholic, and I joined his church. But it won’t be good for any of us if I have a baby every year. I must space them further apart. Maybe the rhythm method wou
ld work if we were out of the navy, but for now …”

  “What does your husband think of birth control other than what is allowed by your religion?”

  “He wants to space our children too. He also wants me to gain some weight—be stronger.”

  Ingrid, who’d been listening to the conversation, said, “Her father and I are worried about her. If Andy loves her, he should be worried too. She’s lost sixteen pounds!”

  “We can’t have that. You have two children a year apart, right?”

  “Eleven months apart.”

  “I can fit you with a diaphragm. When you and your husband want more children, just don’t use it. It’s as simple as that. But are you sure this is what you want to do, Britt?” He reached for a package, opened it, pulled out a diaphragm, and held it out for her to see.

  “It’s what I have to do, Dr. Karsten, but how exactly do I use that thing?”

  “It’s easy. Look, it’s just a cup that fits over the opening of the cervix. I will measure you for it because an exact fit is important. I’ll give you some spermicidal gel to use with it. You’ll put some in the cup and around the rim before you use it.”

  “I should be able to handle that.”

  “Of course you can,” said Ingrid. “You’re a smart girl, Britt.”

  “Dr. Karsten, how long do I leave it in?”

  “Put it in an hour before intercourse. You can leave it in for up to six hours. Be sure to clean it thoroughly after you remove it.” He picked up a pamphlet from his desk. “Here, keep this—the pictures and text should answer all your questions.