The Two July 14ths

There are at least two family stories about the fourteenth of July. Let's have the funny one first, shall we? Well, anyway, I think it's funny.

I learned the Marseillaise in French class. Eighth grade, I think it was. It is such a stirring song that I still enjoy singing it, probably because I've never been forced to do so. Here's my favorite rendition. It doesn't start out as the Marseillaise, so wait for it.

I learned the first two verses. Well, sort of. I don't remember all the words right, and sometimes I loop between verses. Eh.

It really sticks in my head, so much that when I tell my kids that we're going, I say, "Allons, enfants." Even Timmy knows what I mean, and he doesn't speak French. It faintly amuses me every time I say it, because I know I'm not calling them to battle; I'm probably just telling them we're going to the checkout counter.

So that's the first. The second is about July 14, 1986; I remember because it was Bastille Day. I'll probably never forget that awful day.

Rosie was 2 1/2 months old, and I'd been back at work for a few weeks. It was always hard for me to go back to work; I never got to stay with my babies as long as I wanted. I nursed them as long as I could, which wasn't very long for any of them—maybe seven months at the most. There weren't any nursing lounges or effective breast pumps back then. In fact, my company (which had awfully good benefits in most areas) didn't even provide maternity leave; that came after I'd finished having babies. I had to use my accrued sick leave and then accrued vacation, and then the company would allow new mothers to go in the hole for some length of time I've forgotten. What with kids getting sick, my sick days, and doctors' visits, it took me so long to get out of that hole that I didn't have an actual vacation until 1990, when Timmy was two. That one was a staycation. We painted the outside of the house.

Anyway. On July 14, 1986, I had forgotten to bring my cooler with empty baby bottles and ice packs. That was how I pumped milk—by hand into baby bottles, which I kept cool until I got to my home fridge. Without it . . .

Oh, wait. This is a family blog, right? So if you're embarrassed by breastfeeding, stop reading.

You aren't embarrassed? Okay, let's go on.

Without that cooler and pumping my milk, my breasts got really engorged. Painfully engorged. And I couldn't bear to pump milk into the toilet or something. I never had more milk than I needed, and I desperately wanted to give my babies my milk and feel that even though I wasn't home with them, I was at least doing what I could to help them be healthy. Remember, I was postpartum, and my hormones were still going crazy.

So I called my husband. (Probably only my family is reading this. Let's call him Daddy.) He was staying home with our children as usual. This was when he was at nursing school at Georgetown, but maybe he had no classes that day? I don't remember. Anyway, at lunch Daddy packed our three kids up and brought them to BNA with my precious cooler, bottles, and ice pack.

July in DC can be hideously hot, and July 14, 1986, was just about the hottest day of the year. Rosie couldn't stay in the heat for long; she was just a newborn, and she wasn't used to the horrible heat. Daddy brought the kids inside and told the security guard at the front desk that he was there to see me. Rosie's skin was still kind of mottled from the heat, and I think she'd been crying.

Of course as soon as she saw or smelled me, she wanted to nurse. Daddy had probably given her some formula, but she wanted her mama. I couldn't refuse her that. Anyway, it was my lunchtime, so I had time.

But it was noonish, so it was the hottest part of the day. I think the AC didn't work in the car; anyway, for some reason, that wasn't a good spot to nurse Rosie. I didn't have an office, and the older kids would have been disruptive at work anyway. I was not going to nurse her outside; she would have thrown up. I considered the bathroom, away from people, but, well, would you eat in a bathroom?

So I nursed her in the lobby, with everybody passing and complimenting me on the lovely baby. I positioned my clothing so that many people didn't even know I was nursing. But I still felt the need to tell my boss so that if anybody got mad, she would have heard it from me first.

She exploded. She said my children were never allowed on BNA property again. I worried that she might find a way to fire me from this job that I didn't much like but that fed my family. Within a year (I don't remember when) I found another job within the company, to my great relief.

Poor thing, I feel sorry for her now. She was painfully thin, her face was always squinched up in some kind of displeasure, and I don't remember that she ever laughed. From what I could tell, her marriage was not happy. She volunteered at St. Ann's, a home for orphan babies, and I suspected that she was having trouble having her own baby. Later I found out that was true. So it must have hurt her to imagine me with three young children, one of them still nursing.

Anyway, that's my Bastille Day. What's yours?

"I Didn't" [insert word here]

Rosie's blog posts often remind me of stuff my own children did. I think, "Oh, I should blog that." But then I don't have enough material for a whole post, and I don't.

Well, phooey on that. I should just blog whenever I think of something, right? Otherwise, these priceless pearls of—um—history would go unblogged. And they might be lost! Forever lost in the mists of antiquity!

So this may be the first really short blog post about just one thing. And I doubt it will have a picture. Contain your disappointment.

Mary Claire is following in Patrick's footsteps when she makes up a word or claims that she didn't do whatever her mom is telling her not to do. Patrick used to throw things when that was not the best idea. I told him, "Patrick, don't throw things."

But of course he hadn't been doing what he wasn't supposed to do! His response was generally, "I didn't throw it! I tossed it!"

Yeah, right, kid. Throwing, tossing, what's the difference? Well, one was apparently allowed and the other wasn't. But it was only after I told him not to toss things that he would stop.

. . . Sometimes. Because, of course, he wanted to do what he wanted to do, and he didn't want to be caught at it. He actually admitted that once. I saw him doing something against the rules, and he exclaimed piteously, "But you weren't supposed to see!"

But No, She Had To Have Her OWN Birthday

I was born on my dad's 39th birthday. As I remember it, he really enjoyed ignoring his own birthday every year, and it was a happy day for both of us.

On the day before my 30th birthday, my coworkers gave me a birthday party. I went into labor at 4 pm that afternoon, very pleased. A triple birthday for grandfather, mother, and baby! How cool would that be?

Munching on birthday cake as my first contraction made its appearance, I looked meditatively over at my coworker Phyllis, who had two teenagers. She had a sneaking suspicion that I was in labor then. When the contraction was over and I told her that I thought labor had indeed started, she went into a panic while trying to appear calm. I was rather amused at that; this was an uncomplicated pregnancy, and I certainly wasn't in a panic; I just phoned Jonathan as usual, telling him that I was coming home. This time was with a twist, of course, because Rosie and I were in labor!

Phyllis insisted on driving me to Metro, even though I probably could have made better time by walking. She was was very very nervous as she drove, convinced that I would give birth right there. She must have been relieved when I was still thoroughly pregnant at Metro! I took my briefcase, purse, bag of Junior League store clothing that I had bought for the kids at lunch, and box of birthday cake remains and had an uneventful ride to Ballston. (This was just before the Orange Line went all the way to Vienna.)

Jonathan arrived at Ballston with Paddy and Peggy, and they took me home to our apartment in Merrifield. We did dinner as usual, labor intensified, and I knew we needed to get to the hospital soon.

Dr. Collea (our OB) wasn't available, and neither was his back-up. I phoned whoever was on call. (This was the pattern for the first three kids. Each of them was delivered by a stranger.) That doctor listened to me calmly listing my symptoms and told me he didn't think I was ready to have this baby yet. I was a bit miffed and not about to be pushed around. "My last baby arrived after 3.25 hours of labor," I informed this doctor. "I think I'm ready, and I'm coming in."

Jonathan bundled the kids into the car, and we took them to spend the night with Shanna, their very loving and competent babysitter. Then we drove back into DC to Georgetown Hospital, where the nameless doctor found that I was, indeed, ready to give birth. Imagine that—the mother was right! Who'd'a thunk it? Not Georgetown, apparently. They treated me as if I were a 45-year-old primipara with diabetes or something, not as if I were an experienced mother.

The nurse opened the window, which I asked her to close. "Most of our mothers want the window open," she snapped at me. "Well, I'm not most of your mothers, and I want the window closed," I snapped right back. She didn't like it, but she closed the window.

Meanwhile, labor progressed to the point that I was a bit worried about the triple birthday. Shortly thereafter, things were busy enough that I thought, "Okay, let's get this show on the road!" Rosie was born at 10:43 pm, an hour and 17 minutes before her grandfather's and mama's birthday. As I always say (somewhat to Rosie's annoyance), "But noooo, she had to have her own birthday!"

At 7 pounds 3.5 ounces, Rosie was our smallest baby, and she was just beautiful. As I recall, we took her home the next morning, against medical advice as always. Jonathan never liked hospitals, and I can't blame him; they are no place to rest. Rosie's birth was routine, so why stay at the hospital?

Paddy and Peggy were happy to greet their new little sister, and we all lived happily ever after. Well, more or less. You'll hear about that in other stories.