Where Do Babies Come From?

A little discourse on the the birds and the bees.  One of my younger sisters thought babies came from Martin's Dry Cleaners because my parents had stopped there to pick up some dry cleaning on their way home from the hospital with a new baby.  It was perfectly logical at the time and I wished I could have provided her with a better answer - but talking about where all these babies came from was not a subject with which anyone was comfortable least of all, me.

I recall the horrible day I was taunted by a neighbourhood boy (Jimmy Paul) who said 'your mother is having another baby' and me, hotly denying it until I went home to ask her if she were indeed 'having another baby!'.  She laughed and said 'yes' and I was mortified for the both of us!  My mother wore loose fitting dresses and I was never aware of how she looked, so pregnancies did not register on me.

This same boy's parents (the Pauls) helped out when my mother went to the hospital for the birth.  We went to their place for lunch and had the most wonderful delicacy imaginable - Kraft Dinner!  I had never tasted anything so good - my mother always made her own macaroni and cheese - and when we tasted this packaged combo, neither I, nor my younger brothers and sisters, could imagine why my mother would bother making her own when this obviously superior alternative was available! 

When we moved to Llewellyn, my third youngest brother was brought in a wicker laundry basket as he was so small.  He had been born prematurely and weighed only 5 lbs at birth!  He attained a respectable weight and height as the years passed, but I know my mother always thought he was 'delicate'.  She changed her mind later on when this same brother got into a whole heap load of trouble and was almost expelled from school.  He is now a PhD and teaches at a college in St Paul Minnesota - go figure!

My two youngest brothers are only 11 months apart - 'Irish Twins' is the term - and were treated as 'twins'.  We would celebrate their birthdays together, twice, and I have fond memories of caring for these two little ones.  By caring, I mean I would feed them (one for you - two for me) spoonfuls of baby fruit (apricots were my - I mean their  - favourite), bathe them, and tie them up to the maple tree on the lawn when I had to look after them.

My second youngest brother was a 'pistol' - that's the only way to describe him.  Around three years of age, he drove his little pedal car all the way up to Dundas Street and was brought back home by the police.  My mother peered out of the front window of our house and asked 'Why is there a police car out front?  Where's Mark!'  With a scientific bent, he would conduct experiments like throwing water on hot light bulbs to see if they would burst - they did.  He set fire to cotton balls soaked in rubbing alcohol from the medicine cabinet - such an inquisitive mind!  He devised a plan to obtain much needed cash by taking coins from the milk bottles that the neighbours left out and purchased dinky cars for himself and his little brother - who could fault such a noble gesture - certainly not me although the neighbours were not as impressed.

My youngest brother, at three months of age, became ill.  My mother just knew there was something wrong and trusting her instincts, called the doctor.  In those days, family practitioners actually made house calls.  Dr McKenna (of the warm hands and kind face) arrived to check out the baby.  Stethoscope out, visually checking my brother, we all waited with baited breath.  He shook his head and said he wasn't sure but he did not want to take any chances so he took our baby brother to the hospital.  The next morning he called my mother to say our little brother had made it through the night!  Made it through the night?  My mother and we older siblings, could not grasp the import of his words.  Sure he had been a little off, but made it through the night?  It turned out that he had a staph infection that had seeped into his chest cavity.  They had to put a 'drain' in to remove the infection from his chest - he still has the scar!

After that my little brother was treated like royalty by my parents - well, actually just my mother.  She would carry him around even when he weighed almost as much as she did - she would piggyback him up the stairs for his nap.  Fair dues to him, he did not become spoiled or demanding but had such a sweet and affable nature that everyone loved him.

He went through a stage where he would talk about his dreams ad nauseum.  I would stagger down to the kitchen in the morning to see him sitting there with my parents recounting his latest dream.  If my mother could have given him a 'coat of many colours' she would have - he was the 'Joseph' of the family.  This is the brother who is now a contemplative monk in Vermont.  I never felt the least bit guilty for the way I treated any of my brothers when they were growing up.  I feel I added to their character and have no remorse for trying to ditch them whenever I could!

After the birth of my youngest brother, my mother had a series of miscarriages - we did not know what they were at the time, and it is only in piecing together the events later in life, that we understood what had happened.  Our neighbour, Mrs Dallimore (a former nurse) came over one time when my mother experienced one of these 'events' and assessing my mother's condition, called an ambulance.  She saved her life but all I remember was 10 little tear stained faces pressed against the window watching the ambulance take our mother away - the flashing lights were pretty cool though!