All through the latter part of February 1965, my mother’s small hospital suitcase stood just inside the sliding door of our lounge room, and every morning without fail I checked to see if it was still in place.
If it was missing, then I would know that Mum was at the maternity hospital – and that our new baby was finally on its way.
The only morning I didn’t do this was 4th March – my 8th birthday.
I guess my mind was on other things.
It wasn't until after I saw Dad in the bathroom and he said “Happy birthday. Mum’s bag is gone.” that I even thought of it.
Of course, being eight years old, I had to go to check it out for myself – and sure enough, her suitcase WAS missing.
But there was no baby yet.
Over breakfast Dad told us that he'd taken Mum to Baxter House overnight and he would have more to tell us after school.
In spite of this earth-shattering news, we still made time to open my birthday presents. I only recall one present that day – although there must have been others. It was a my new school’s tie pin, which I was pretty pleased with and wore on my lapel.
I was such a dag – but you have to remember this was the mid-sixties…
I went to school as usual, but had to catch a different bus at the end of the day, because Lynda and I were to stay with family friends, Gordon and Cynthia Hall at their home in Highton (a suburb across town).
Coincidentally, it was the also their eldest daughter’s 16th birthday that day. Natalie and her sister Michelle attended my school and were given the task of bringing me home from school with them.
It was all quite an adventure for an eight year old.
School really dragged that day and I could hardly wait to find out whether I had a new brother or sister. And I wanted details!
I’d been fascinated by the whole notion of babies ever since I’d known Mum was pregnant and had plagued her with all sorts of questions. For instance, I knew that ALL babies had blue eyes when they were born – and I was anxious to see this phenomenon for myself, since we all had brown or hazel eyes in our family.
You can imagine my frustration when we were told that there was no news yet. I thought I was going to burst. What had Mum been doing all day?
We joined the extended Hall family in their celebration of Natalie’s birthday over dinner that night – and I think that a cake was produced for me too, which was a bit special. But the most memorable thing about that meal was that it was the very first time I’d ever eaten corn on the cob. Freshly picked and slathered with butter. Yum, sensational.
It is still one of my favourite foods.
Lynda and I stayed up late waiting to hear from Dad, but bedtime came and went with no word. Since tomorrow was still a school day, we finally went to bed, trusting that there would be news in the morning.
Thank heavens, there was.
Cynthia Hall woke us the next morning bearing hot chocolate, news and a small gift for us both. The news was that we had a brand new baby sister. Her name was Tracy Kim and she’d been born at 11:30pm – just inside my birthday.
Woo hoo!
Oh the gift? Bizarrely, a troll doll each. Mine had red hair and Lynda’s had white. I think I still have mine … somewhere.
In those unenlightened times, a woman's confinement was taken quite literally. New mothers were scarcely allowed out of bed for toilet privileges for a week or more after a normal delivery. Children were not permitted to visit their mothers and I suspect fathers were barely tolerated. They certainly didn’t venture inside the labour ward. Not then anyway.
For us the only direct means of communication with our mother was to write her a letter.
I wrote and I asked her that burning question. What colour WERE our new baby’s eyes?
Mum wrote back, telling us that it was hard to see her eye colour since she was sleeping so much, but that her eyes seemed to be very, very dark. She also told us how tiny and perfect her hands and fingernails were.
Naturally we were desperate to see this for ourselves, but it was nearly two weeks later before we finally met our sister.
Tracy did not disappoint.
I don’t remember too much about her homecoming, except that she was a very good baby and her eyes were never, ever blue. They were almost black right from the start. But she was utterly perfect and we all thought she was gorgeous.
Four year old Lynda announced that she was the most beautiful baby ever. Ever modest, Mum said that every family felt the same way about a new baby. Lynda replied. “Yes, but ours really is.”
You can’t argue with that kind of devotion, can you?
A post script:
A few months later I really earned my big sister stripes. It was winter and Mum was outside putting the washing on the line. She slipped over on the wet grass, and broke her upper arm.
She was in plaster for what seemed like months, probably because she continued to breast feed and didn’t have an ounce of calcium to spare for mending bones.
Basic tasks like showering and dressing were all very challenging, and caring for an infant was even worse.
She continued to breast feed and it was an ongoing battle to keep her cast from resting on Tracy’s head as she fed. Feeding was one thing, but she couldn’t bathe her, carry her safely or even change her nappy – so I became her right hand (or left in this case), at least after school anyway, while our grandmother handled the cooking and cleaning side of things.
Excellent training for when I had my own children twenty-something years later.
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