Oh, Baby!. Judy Baer
she’s absolutely fantastic. She took up golf last summer.”
“Really?” Emily looked hopeful.
“I’m from a family of nine. My mother had a baby every two years for eighteen years. Her ‘caboose’ baby was born at forty-two.” Poor little Kevin, I thought. Mother, when she called him the little caboose on a very long train, had never meant for the name to stick. At twenty, his nickname is still “Caboose.” I know very few people outside our family who actually realize his name is Kevin. His girlfriend calls him Coby so maybe the next generation will eventually forget the nickname.
“Nine? Imagine.” Emily appeared unable to grasp the concept.
“We did come one at a time, and we were small to begin with. Fortunately, my dad said that our house was made of rubber and that the walls could stretch to accommodate any number of children. Somehow he was right.”
“No wonder you are in this business. You love children, don’t you?”
“I do. I taught both preschool and kindergarten before becoming a doula. I can’t get away from people under six years of age—or their mothers.”
Emily looked at me thoughtfully. “Frankly, when I asked you here today to interview you, I really didn’t plan to hire you. It was more to salve my curiosity, to leave ‘no stone unturned’ concerning my pregnancy. My doctor didn’t recommend having a doula. In fact, he discouraged it rather vehemently.”
I felt a knowing chill run through me.
“But I’ve changed my mind. I like you, Molly, and I like what you say a doula is and does.” She gave a small, wry laugh. “And at my age, I need all the help I can get.”
I drained my teacup before speaking. “Your physician wouldn’t happen to be Dr. Clay Reynolds at Bradshaw Medical Center, would he?”
Emily looked surprised. “Yes, it is. How did you know?”
“I didn’t. I just know that he’s not a fan of having doulas—or anyone but medical personnel—around during a delivery. Lucky guess.” Or very unlucky.
“He’s a wonderful doctor,” Emily said. “So compassionate and thorough. I know he is a bit old-fashioned when it comes to his mothers, but he’d do anything in his power to protect a woman or a child. A lot of women trust him implicitly.”
There it was again, his mothers. I’m not sure I like anyone as proprietary about mothers as he is. Until he came along, they were mine, all mine.
“I had high hopes for Bradshaw,” I admitted, “but now I think I’ll have to turn my sights elsewhere.”
Emily stood up to refill my teacup. Her body profile was slender but for the “baby bump” around her middle. She wore a black sleeveless knit top, trim khaki pants, casually expensive black heels and diamonds that would make the queen wince. She could have been taken for twenty-five instead of forty. “What do you mean?”
“Never mind, I shouldn’t have said anything. Just a pipe dream.”
“It’s too late now. You’ve already started.” She also refilled the plate of tender date cookies and rich macaroons.
“I have this vision,” I admitted reluctantly, “of creating an agency through which mothers and doulas can connect. Somewhere an expectant mother can go to discover if a doula is right for her. Currently moms are referred to us by health nurses, nurse practitioners, doctors or by word of mouth from friends who’ve used a doula. Some doulas have formed small group associations in order to promote their practices, but I envision something more.”
I was on a roll now, excited, like I am every time I think of what I’d like to have happen. “I want everyone to know what a doula is and how to hire one. I’d like to create an agency that not only has a roster of doulas but also educational programs and support groups about all things concerning mother and baby.”
“It sounds like a wonderful idea. Why would you give that up?” Emily sat down, kicked off one shoe and tucked her foot beneath her leg.
“I’m not giving it up entirely, but I may have to give up on creating it at Bradshaw Medical Center. I’d love to start the program through a hospital. Because of Bradshaw’s size, it would be a good place to begin a pilot program. They already have a free clinic in one of the more depressed neighbor-hoods so it would be a simple matter to add an agency like this. But now that Dr. Reynolds is head of the obstetrics department…”
Emily had an odd expression on her face as she patted my hand. “Don’t worry about the hospital or Dr. Reynolds right now, my dear. That can be worked out. You did, after all, sell me on the value of a doula.”
For no good reason that I could discern, Emily’s words comforted me greatly.
After I left the Hancock home, I drove my red Volkswagen convertible to the Yarn Shack to buy what was, for me, almost better than chocolate or sleeping in late—baby yarn.
“Back already?” Matilda, a robust woman in her sixties, said when she saw me enter. “You knit faster than anyone else I know.”
“Not really. I just buy yarn faster than anyone else you know.” I headed straight for the soft pinks, blues, yellows and greens. “I want enough to knit a couple of baby hats.”
“I’ve got something you’ll like even better.” Matilda dug beneath the counter and came up with a pattern book. “New hats. Look.”
She opened the book to reveal a massively colorful jester’s hat with six points and silver bells on the tip of each point. There was also a knitted stovepipe hat reinforced with a cardboard liner that looked like something the Mad Hatter might wear, and an alligator hat with its jaws open at the back of the wearer’s head. “Anyone you know need a new hat?”
My weakness is hats, the louder and more garish the better. I make them for everyone I know. What’s more, I insist they wear them. Poor Caboose, er, Kevin. Because he was the youngest, he got more of my hats than my other siblings. The boy wore my knitted hats in the shapes of animals or vegetables until junior high when I made him a hat that tied beneath his chin and had an elephant face and trunk on the back.
I gave up pressing him about it when he said he’d fear for his life in the boys’ dressing room if he wore the hat to school. I gave it to my oldest brother, Mike’s, son. He was three at the time and had less violent friends.
Crazy hats strike me as funny and lift my spirits. If everyone in the world wore a zany hat, we wouldn’t take ourselves so seriously and news programs and political debates on television would be much more fun.
After purchasing the pattern book and yarn I needed, I drove toward Bradshaw Medical to meet Lissy and Tony and for lunch.
Everything about Bradshaw Medical is picturesque. The hospital sits on top of an undulating hill with a gradual slope. It was built by Everett Bradshaw in the sixties. Bradshaw had made his wealth early as a reconstructive cosmetic surgeon, and rumor has it that he’d felt compelled to “give back” to the community. Not a big hospital in size but very impressive in reputation, the facility has long since been a place where very public personalities go for treatment away from prying eyes. It had also been at Everett Bradshaw’s suggestion that the free clinic had come into being. Other than Everett’s grumpy grandson, a lot of good things are happening at Bradshaw Medical.
And not only that, they have a great cafeteria.
Lissy and Tony were already waiting for me.
“Where’s your nurse’s uniform?” I asked as I joined Lissy at a small round table.
“I’m already off for the day. I came in early to cover for someone. I changed out of my uniform so I’d be ready to rumble when you got here.”
“I’m hardly in a ‘rumbling’ mood. I have chores to do at home.”
“I