Mixed Blessings
My long-awaited birth triggered great celebration. At least, that’s the story.
“Oh, Nancy, we were so excited when you were born,” Mom would begin whenever I complained about being the youngest child and the only girl.
She always recited the narrative the same way. Right after World War II ended and Dad finished optometry school, they started their family. First came Lewis in 1946. A healthy baby boy! Wonderful! But when Mom was handed a second boy two years later, she politely informed the nurse that there must have been a mistake.
“A boy?” she said, as if a waitress had simply brought the wrong menu item, “but I already have one.”
Ultimately persuaded that the order had indeed been correctly delivered, Mom named the baby Alan and moved on. Still basking in post-war optimism, she was convinced the next pregnancy guaranteed a girl. The unborn child was dubbed “Maria,” and both grandmas spent the next nine months sewing frilly dresses. Alas, she gave birth to a third boy.
Mom sighed. “I gave up ‘Maria’ and changed it to ‘Mark.’ What else could I do?”
With lowered expectations, my parents decided to try one last time, prepared to be content with four healthy boys. Even though I knew the story by heart, I invariably interrupted Mom at this particular point.
“Would you have tried again?” I probed every time. “I mean, if it had been another boy?”
“No. I’ve told you. You were our last chance. We believed in family planning: four children, two to three years apart.”
She always answered in her practical, isn’t-it-obvious tone of voice. Who knew, except Mom, that you could order up a family at specifically-requested intervals? In her world you could even control birth weight. All four of us hit the scales at over nine pounds; Mark topped 10.
“How did you manage to have such big babies?” I asked, when I grew up and carried a growing tummy myself. Her answer shouldn’t have surprised me.
“Oh, we don’t believe in small babies,” she asserted, as if belief determined infant size just as clearly as DNA determined our curly hair and long fingers.
That was Mom, a brilliant woman who never understood jokes and had so little mechanical aptitude she needed help loading a stapler yet possessed a strength of attitude that could move mountains. Even God probably tried to stay out of her way.
And there was Dad, who loved her—and us—deeply. Dad countered Mom’s intensity with a gentle serenity. He was like a slight breeze on a mountain lake lapping tiny waves up onto a rocky shore. His even temper and simple wisdom assured us that no pebbles would cut too sharp and all storms could be weathered.
So that morning in 1954 when I arrived, they could hardly believe their good fortune. A girl! Finally, a girl! News traveled fast, and all the friends and relatives rejoiced. Someone hung pink ribbons on the door of my father’s optometry practice. What a blessing, what celebration! A girl, can you believe it? Little did anyone suspect how hard I’d try to be one of the boys. That’s how I got to be the way I am—and, of course, all the other stuff that happened along the way.
How the Ball Bounced, by Nancy Nerenberg 