A Daughter…Yes….Please Give to Me
I kept repeating that prayer as I walked with my precious son in his stroller. My beautiful, brilliant baby boy was just two years old. He was the joy of the family and me. But now a new joy appeared. I was pregnant again. In seven months my baby would be born and I wanted a daughter desperately . . . a tiny female to adore and dress in pretty girly things.
She arrived just as I hoped she would . . . the most beautiful baby girl I had ever seen. Only 17 inches long weighing 6 lb. 14 oz, she was chubby with fat wrinkles around her little wrists and ankles. Her curly dark hair had to be cut in bangs to keep it out of her eyes. “Peaches and cream” was a poor metaphor for my little Robin’s complexion. In fact, she was so beautiful that the nurses tied a red bow on my bed so visitors could find the mother of that beautiful baby. I swear I crowed in delight.
She grew . . . still lovely . . . still not recognizing it . . . but playing make-believe with all the friends that she made so easily. So the time came for her 7th Birthday Party and though I felt she needed it, I also knew that we must invite her friend Barbara. Barbara was a wild, uncontrollable child. Still, a party it would be. I would figure out how to deal with Barbara, and I did. Formal invitations were sent reading:
She arrived just as I hoped she would . . . the most beautiful baby girl I had ever seen. Only 17 inches long weighing 6 lb. 14 oz, she was chubby with fat wrinkles around her little wrists and ankles. Her curly dark hair had to be cut in bangs to keep it out of her eyes. “Peaches and cream” was a poor metaphor for my little Robin’s complexion. In fact, she was so beautiful that the nurses tied a red bow on my bed so visitors could find the mother of that beautiful baby. I swear I crowed in delight.
She grew . . . still lovely . . . still not recognizing it . . . but playing make-believe with all the friends that she made so easily. So the time came for her 7th Birthday Party and though I felt she needed it, I also knew that we must invite her friend Barbara. Barbara was a wild, uncontrollable child. Still, a party it would be. I would figure out how to deal with Barbara, and I did. Formal invitations were sent reading:
You are cordially invited to attend
A Dinner Birthday Party in honor of
Robin Dennis’ Seventh Birthday
To be held on November 20, 1954
At 1863 Sunset Boulevard
Mission Hills, California
From seven until nine-thirty
Formal attire is requested
Baby sitting is available
A Dinner Birthday Party in honor of
Robin Dennis’ Seventh Birthday
To be held on November 20, 1954
At 1863 Sunset Boulevard
Mission Hills, California
From seven until nine-thirty
Formal attire is requested
Baby sitting is available
Her friends arrived in their mothers’ shoes wearing gloves and hats. Several of them wore fur stoles. Jewelry glowed from their earlobes to their necks and wrists. The 18 little girls were ever so polite as I offered them seven-up champagne in my beautiful glasses. They puffed sophistically on their candy cigarettes. Dinner was served on the best linens and lovely napkins were placed on their laps. They received creamed tuna served in ramekins along with whipped potatoes and flower-like vegetables. Of course the cake was the crowning glory . . . a large domed cake with a dolls head and arms placed on top. The body was covered with lace-like frosting. Their departure was equally polite. They picked up their babies from the play pen I had provided, thanked Robin for their invitations stating they had a wonderful time, and Robin politely thanked them for coming. Her party was a success and a special time that she has never forgotten. Neither have I. And needless to say, Barbara was a perfect guest.
Robin’s other special birthday was her 18th. Now a young woman but still my precious child, this time a poem had to be written. I couldn’t tell her in words all that was in my heart. There was no way to cover those blessed years . . . the good, the traumatic, the wonderful, the difficult. It needed to be written and left with her forever.
Robin’s other special birthday was her 18th. Now a young woman but still my precious child, this time a poem had to be written. I couldn’t tell her in words all that was in my heart. There was no way to cover those blessed years . . . the good, the traumatic, the wonderful, the difficult. It needed to be written and left with her forever.
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