Nana, Girl of the Fifties

Known only as Dr. Spock. As in, “Have you read Dr. Spock?”

When I was young, I dreamed of many things. Being a grandmother wasn’t one of them. But over the course of time, things happened. Soon after high school, instead of college there was a wedding. Because it was the Fifties, the inevitable babies came along–three of them, eventually, over the course of 10 years–all planned, all wanted, each adorable in his or her own way.

With dear, dear Dr. Spock’s help, I strove to be the near-perfect mother. I sang to them, read them stories, told them they were wonderful. I laid awake nights thinking up fun things we could do the next day. Ah, life was good. (I’m lying, of course, but you knew that. Our son, our second-born, hated Dr. Spock even before he could walk. He ripped two copies to shreds and would have worked on the third if I hadn’t found a hiding place.)

But all too soon the good doctor’s book ended. It happened just as The Adorable Ones entered puberty–which, looking back on it now, seems very odd, considering that’s when the trouble really starts. (I’m thinking now that Old Ben didn’t know how to handle those teen years, either. That’s why the book ended when it did.)

What happened next is that aliens came down and replaced our kids with uncanny look-alikes. These look-alikes had one major flaw–they didn’t have a clue about what went before, during those early training years when we parents struggled…