Elizabeth Crane - The History of Great Things

Youre late. Two weeks, forty-one hours late, nine pounds, ten ounces. Thats a lot. Thats like a bowling ball coming out of me.

Ive heard this part before, Mom.

Just let me have my say and then you can have yours.

Fine.

So youre a giant bowling ball coming out of me. If bowling balls were square. It hurts like a bitch. Honestly. No one mentioned this detail to me in advance. I may as well be pushing out a full-grown adult. Wearing a tweed pantsuit. Think about that. Thats what they should tell kids in sex ed. Not that sex ed exists now, because it doesnt. Sex exists. Not ed.

Its 1961. Your father is in the waiting room, of course, because thats the way it is at this time. No dads, no home video, no breathing techniques. All fine by me, though I wouldnt hate for someone to mention to me that Pampers exist now. Your father is escorted in as soon as theyve cleaned you up (god forbid the father should have to see that?) and handed you over to me all wrapped in a pink striped bunting, and when Fred comes over its very dear, actually. He peeks down into the bunting, and I see a pleased look on his face thats different from any Ive seen him have before. Hes not usually terribly expressive, as you know. But I can see how he feels about you already. I hand you over and realize hes never held a baby before, that maybe we should have practiced with your cousin or something, because youre a little unsteady passing between us, but once hes got you hes got you.

The next day, we take you home. Youre a good baby, thank god. Sleep through the night, dont fuss too much, drink formula like a champ nursing is not considered modern, even by doctors (by most, its considered icky), and I am perfectly happy to accept this wisdom. And you are exceptionally beautiful. A thicket of dark curls on your day of birth that soon soften to a light brown, dark eyes that soon turn blue I still dont know where those came from, since Fred and I both have green eyes, but its fine, because your blue eyes are huge and youre nicely plump, with deliciously squishy baby legs even though my insides and my crotch still feel like the baby Godzilla just left my uterus. Grandmother Crane sends a beautiful layette from Marshall Fields: a delicate linen dress, a hand-crocheted cardigan, with matching bonnet and booties, though the whole set gets ruined pretty quickly, not very practical for a baby. I told her Id just as well have stuff from Penneys, but of course that wasnt good enough. By the time youre old enough to walk, between Mother and me, you have an almost exclusively handmade wardrobe. She knits some absolutely darling little sweaters, and I make dresses, some of them smocked; sometimes I make matching dresses for us, and for your doll Bibsy if I have some selvage left over. In any case, youre a very well dressed, absolutely beautiful little girl, everyone remarks on this, and I am very proud.

Until the tantrums start, around the typical age, two and a half or so. I wont be around for some of these, but one time theres a particularly huge fuss about cleaning up your kitchen set. Time to clean up! But why? Because its suppertime. Well is it suppertime or cleanup time? First its cleanup time, then its suppertime. But why? Im not finished! Because it is, Betsy. But Im not finished! Yes, you are for now. No! No! Im not! Im not finished! I will never be finished! I had read in Dr. Spock that youre supposed to throw your child in a bathtub of cold water during a tantrum, but on this occasion theres no time for that, and now that its happening I cant imagine how thered ever be time for that, youd basically have to have a bathtub full of cold water ready to go, though with the increasing frequency of your fits it might be worth it. So I run to the kitchen and grab a glass of water and throw it on you, and sure enough, you do stop yelling for a brief moment, no doubt because youre completely stunned. Im going to tell my daddy on you! you say, and I have to leave the room, otherwise I will laugh.

Im thinking you have an unfair advantage, at least when it comes to my first eighteen years, because you were there.

Not always.

Good point.

Okay. Muscatine, Iowa. June of 1936.

Youre born in Muscatine. Edna, your mother, has been a homemaker since your older sister, Marjorie, was born a couple years earlier. Before that she worked at the Heinz factory for a while. Walter, your father, is the editor of the Muscatine Journal. Member of the lodge.

Which lodge?

I dont know, some lodge. A lodge is a lodge.

Dont tell him that.

Mom, Grandpas long gone.

Well, so am I, Betsy, but youre talking to me.

Okay, whatever! Lets say its a Moose lodge.

Lets say? You dont think we should try to be accurate?

Well, its not a memoir. Its just a story.

But its a true story.

Its not a true story, though. Thats not what were doing. Do you think you know my story?

Yes. I dont know. Maybe. More than you think.

Lemme just keep going.

Youre kind of a sickly baby. You have the croup a lot and your father is always at work or at the lodge, doing lodge things, making secret lodge greetings with the other men in their fezzes, smoking cigars and telling bawdy jokes. Your mothers tired all the time though she never complains about it one bit. Marjorie isnt any much easier than you, she hasnt had the croup, but shes a handful. Wont go down for a nap, not ever. Always loud and asking annoying questions nonstop and by the time youre born shes already got an opinion about everything.

I dunno about the croup, but so far the rest of that is pretty believable.

Shhh!

But youre a good kid. You and Marjorie share a double bed until she goes to college, and you fight a lot (or, all the time). You think Marjorie is a pill and Marjorie thinks youre a pill and youre both right, but its a different era, and youre well-behaved kids, nobody rats their hair or makes out with boys, none of that. Well, Marjorie comes home and kicks you out of the bedroom one night for a sleepover with a girlfriend (you are part miffed to be kicked out, part happy to get to sleep downstairs in the den by yourself), and when you go back upstairs to brush your teeth you hear her giggling and giggling with her friend Effie and you hear some boys names you havent heard before, Roger and Ted, and Effie asking Marjorie to tell her everything, everything! about what it was like, and you dont know what it is, youre maybe eleven at this time, but you know its something you will never, ever do. You just know.

When youre fifteen, your first boyfriend takes you to sophomore prom for your third date. Told you, you say to Marjorie, sticking your tongue out at her. Be careful or Ill cut that off, sassypants. You ask her, How come youre not going to the senior prom, Marjorie? knowing full well that she didnt get asked because her boyfriend just dumped her for the most popular girl in school. Proms stupid, Marjorie says. Only prisses go. The boyfriend is cute enough, a bit of a dullard, on the debating team, Bo-ring, picks you up in his dads Buick, youre wearing a pale lavender tulle dress you and Mother made together, absolutely dreamy, and having a boyfriend is definitely better than not having a boyfriend, your sister was right about that. The girls who dont have boyfriends are either ugly or are tramps wholl go with whoever. You want to get a pin. Sooner or later all these boys want hanky-panky, though, so each year you solve this problem by simply trading in last years guy for a new one; in succession these boys are heartbroken this is the heartbreak of three boys lives, though youll never know it. You join the school chorus, switching after years of humdrum clarinet, something youre enthusiastic about, maybe for the first time.