I REMEMBER JENNY

And Those Baby Magazines!

 

(This was published in ‘The Standard’ on June 7, 1992.  I wrote it under my married name, J. P. Rowe)

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THOSE BABY MAGAZINES!

During my first pregnancy, I remember thumbing through several magazines daydreaming of the near future.  There were photos of peaceful babies and flawless mothers strolling in the spring air, all daintily dressed and spotless.  One caption read, “Be sure, during this important time of life, to let Baby stop and smell the roses.”  I dreamed of the first time my Jenny and I would bend down and breathe in the sweet fragrance.

It didn’t happen that way.

Jenny was not nearly so interested in smelling the roses as in feeling and tasting the stuff used to fertilize them.

Time passed.  I remembered another article that had stressed the importance of introducing the beauty of nature at an early age.  “Show your baby fuzzy caterpillars, and explain how they’ll be changed into beautiful, colorful butterflies,” it urged.

Jenny and I settled down in the soft, new grass and collected a few of the slower-paced critters.  I held one up on a finger and whizzed it around like an airplane, demonstrating what its future held.  A glance down at Jenny revealed that she didn’t care about its future–just it’s flavor!

Jenny’s first eaten caterpillar produced a frantic call to the emergency room; later ones produced a reminder in a singsong voice, “No snacks between meals.”  I learned the possible origin of “butterflies in your stomach” that day.

These and other episodes convinced me those magazines had set me up.  I yanked one up and immediately saw my problem.  Princess Di had her little darling adorned in English hand-smocked attire against a background of artwork and silver tea service.  The young royalty must have surely sensed that greatness was expected even at this early age, and so he acted accordingly.

I was determined to set a scene of dignity.  Off went Mr. Rogers; on came the ballet.  Off went the Muppets records; on came Tchaikovsky.  Away went the peanut butter and jelly, and on came the scampi.  But most of all, I became a regular at the nearby sewing center’s special classes.

I took an English smocking course, completed a French hand-sewing course, and learned heirloom embroidery.  The hours flew by and my fingers with them, designing and embroidering the most delicate of butterflies and hearts on the best of fabrics.  I didn’t mind.  I could hear all the sighs, the ooohs, the ahhs, as my friends would stand around my little darling with exclamations of “You are so smart!” or “How do you ever find the time?” and “I could never manage as well as you!”  I practiced humility and blushes in the mirror.

It didn’t happen that way.

When my baby was dressed and ready for display, she took one look down to verify she had on Mom’s priceless project and then showed what she thought of all the effort by re-presenting her morning’s breakfast.

All good things come to those who wait.

I busily made a size 2, size 3, and size 4.  No kid is going to continue throwing up at those ages, I told myself.  Pastels of every color and heirloom pattern were sewn with care.  I went on an all-out attempt to fatten Jenny up and get her into the handmade elegance.

Toddlerhood did arrive with the dresses still intact.  Curls were curled, skirts were starched and pressed, bows tied.  Toward the front door we proudly marched.

“I WANT BANKIE!!”  Jenny suddenly announced.

Jenny never  went anywhere without Bankie da Banket.  Nowhere.  It was not beautiful or, dignified, or fine.  It was ragged, disgusting, and smelly, due to my inability to retrieve it for laundering.

Tears were produced, screams were screamed to record-breaking pitches, and breath was held to record-breaking face shades.

Around herself she wrapped it like a nun’s habit, completely concealing my one great hope of entry into the Famous Mothers of the Church record.

As I dropped her off in her Sunday School class, she looked like Cinderella at the ball among all the other little girls’ finery–only the fairly godmother forgot the transformation.  She seemed like a walking, dingy, ghostlike blanket with two big, sad eyes peeking out.

The next Sunday and following Sundays I began noticing bags of hand-me-down clothing left in our parked car.

And so it was every Sunday.  Bankie recently received a certificate for good attendance and is being promoted to an older class, along with Jenny.  Jenny received a pin reading, “Jesus loves me, just the way I am.”

That made me stop, think, and ponder.  The God of the universe loves this spaghetti-smelling kid who has accidents in the most embarrassing places and who will allow no one to wipe her yucky nose.  He accepts her arrayed in Bankie or arrayed in finery.  Now it’s Mom’s turn to do the same.

*Image courtesy of stockimages at FreeDigitalPhotos.net