Building a Life Together: Late July to August 1943
July 30, 1943 - Betty's Twenty-Fourth Birthday
Betty woke on her twenty-fourth birthday to find Fred already
awake, watching her with a soft smile.
"Happy birthday, sweetheart," he said, leaning over to
kiss her. His hand rested gently on her prominent belly. "Twenty-four
years old and about to become a mother."
"Don't remind me," Betty groaned, struggling to sit up.
At seven months pregnant, every movement required strategic planning.
"I feel about forty-four."
"You look beautiful. Pregnancy suits you."
"Liar. I look like I swallowed a watermelon."
Fred helped her out of bed and into the kitchen, where he'd
already made breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, and the orange juice
she'd been craving constantly.
"No work today," Fred announced. "I took the day
off. We're celebrating your birthday properly."
"Fred, you can't take days off. The production schedule—"
"Can survive without me for one day. You're more important
than production schedules."
They spent the morning at home, relaxing in a way they hadn't in
months. Fred worked in the garden while Betty sat in the shade, her
feet propped up, reading a book about infant care that her mother had
given her. The baby was active, rolling and kicking, making Betty's
stomach ripple visibly.
"Look," she called to Fred, lifting her dress to show
her bare belly moving. "The baby's doing gymnastics."
Fred came over and placed both hands on her stomach, feeling the
strong movements. "That's our child in there. Still can't quite
believe it."
"You better start believing it. In eleven weeks, that child
will be out here, crying and demanding attention."
That evening, they drove to Fern Street where Emily had organized
a birthday celebration in the backyard. String lights were hung
between the trees, and tables were set up with food—cold cuts and
potato salad, fresh bread, and a beautiful chocolate cake.
The whole family was there: Lyle and Emily, Georgianna, Della and
Austin, and Uncle Edgar who'd come down from Pacific Beach again. The
Chamberlains came too—Marshall, Dorothy, and Marcia, along with
Dorothy's mother, Fred's aunt Emily Taylor.
"Look at you!" Marcia exclaimed when she saw Betty.
"You're enormous!"
"Marcia!" Dorothy scolded. "You can't say that to a
pregnant woman!"
"It's all right," Betty laughed. "I am enormous.
There's no hiding it."
Gifts were modest—wartime restrictions meant extravagant
presents weren't possible. But Emily had made Betty a beautiful
maternity dress. Georgianna had knitted more baby clothes. Della gave
Betty a set of hand-embroidered cloth diapers.
"These will be softer on the baby's skin than store-bought,"
Della explained.
The best gift came from Fred—a beautiful wooden rocking chair
he'd built himself in the workshop in the garage, working on it
during Betty’s Sunday naps over the past month.
"For rocking the baby," Fred said as Betty sat in it,
testing the smooth gliding motion. "I made it extra sturdy so
it'll last for all our children."
"All our children?" Betty raised an eyebrow. "We
haven't even had the first one yet and you're already planning more?"
"I come from a family of six. I'd like at least three or
four."
"Ask me again after I've been through labor," Betty said
dryly, making everyone laugh.
They sang "Happy Birthday," and Betty blew out the
candles, making a wish she kept to herself: Please let this baby
be healthy. Please keep Fred safe. Please let us make it through this
war as a family.
As the evening cooled and stars appeared overhead, Betty sat in
her new rocking chair surrounded by family, Fred's hand on her
shoulder, their baby moving beneath her heart. Despite the war,
despite the uncertainty, despite all the challenges ahead, this
moment was perfect.
"Twenty-four," she said to Fred as they drove home
later. "I thought I'd feel so grown-up by twenty-four. But I
still feel like I'm playing dress-up, pretending to be an adult."
"You are an adult. You're married, pregnant, managing a
household. That's pretty grown-up."
"I suppose. Though I still feel like I'm just making it up as
I go along."
"We're all making it up as we go along, sweetheart. That's
the secret of adulthood—nobody really knows what they're doing.
We're all just doing our best."
Early August 1943 - Preparing the Nursery
With Betty no longer working, she had time to focus on preparing
for the baby. The second bedroom in their small house had been used
for storage, but now it needed to be transformed into a nursery.
Fred spent a Saturday cleaning out the room, moving boxes to the
garage, washing the walls, repairing a crack in the plaster. Then
Betty took over.
She'd chosen a soft yellow paint—neutral, since they didn't know
if the baby was a boy or girl. Fred painted the walls one weekend
while Betty supervised from a chair, offering suggestions and
encouragement.
"A little more on the left corner... perfect! You're getting
very good at this."
"I'm getting very good at following my pregnant wife's
instructions," Fred corrected with a grin.
Once the paint dried, Betty began her artistic project. She'd
sketched out designs on paper first—simple, cheerful images that
would delight a baby. Now, with Fred's help mixing paints, she
carefully painted a border around the room at chair-rail height.
Animals paraded around the walls: a friendly elephant (remembering
her childhood ride at the zoo), a giraffe with a long spotted neck, a
lion with a gentle expression, a bunny with floppy ears. Between the
animals, she painted simple happy faces—suns with smiling
expressions, stars with friendly eyes, flowers with petals arranged
like grins.
"This is amazing," Fred said, watching Betty paint a
particularly charming monkey. "Where did you learn to do this?"
"I taught art for two years, remember? And I painted
watercolors before that. This is just applying those skills to
nursery walls."
"Our baby is going to have the best-decorated room in Chula
Vista."
The furniture had been more challenging to acquire. New baby
furniture was nearly impossible to find—manufacturers had converted
to war production. But Emily knew someone whose grandchildren had
outgrown their baby things, and they were able to buy a crib, a
changing table, and a small dresser for a reasonable price.
Fred repaired and refinished everything, sanding rough spots and
applying fresh white paint. Betty sewed bedding—a small mattress
cover, sheets, and a light blanket. Georgianna had made a beautiful
quilt with a pattern of baby animals that matched the wall
decorations.
By mid-August, the nursery was complete. Betty stood in the
doorway, seven and a half months pregnant, surveying their work.
"A real nursery. For our real baby."
"Getting more real every day," Fred said, his hand on
her belly where the baby was kicking vigorously.
They'd stocked the changing table with cloth diapers. A small
stack of baby clothes waited in the dresser—mostly hand-me-downs
from Phyllis Tazelaar and gifts from family and friends. They'd
bought bottles and formula, just in case, though Betty planned to try
breastfeeding.
"We're as ready as we can be," Fred said.
"Are we though? I still feel completely unprepared. How do
you take care of a newborn? What if I don't know what to do?"
"Then we figure it out. Together. Like everything else."
August 22, 1943 - The Steddom Baby
Betty was hanging laundry in the backyard on Sunday afternoon when
Fred came outside with news.
"Rod just called. Eleanor had the baby this morning at Mercy
Hospital. A boy—Clark Steddom. Eight pounds, four ounces. Mother
and baby are both healthy."
"Oh, wonderful! Can we visit?"
"Rod said to give them a week to get home from the hospital
and settle in, then yes."
On Sunday afternoon, Betty and Fred drove to the Steddoms'
apartment in North Park, bringing a casserole Betty had made and a
small stuffed bear Fred had found at a shop in Chula Vista.
Eleanor looked exhausted but radiant, sitting in a rocking chair
(similar to the one Fred had made for Betty) with tiny Clark in her
arms. The baby was swaddled in a blue blanket, his little face
scrunched and red, eyes squeezed shut.
"He's beautiful," Betty breathed, looking down at the
infant. "Can I hold him?"
"Please. My arms need a break."
Betty settled carefully into a chair, and Eleanor placed baby
Clark in her arms. He was so small, so light, so completely helpless.
His tiny fingers curled into fists, and his rosebud mouth made
sucking motions even in sleep.
"This is what ours will look like," Betty whispered to
Fred. "In about eight weeks, we'll have one of these."
"Smaller probably," Eleanor said. "Clark was a big
baby. Yours might be six or seven pounds."
Betty couldn't stop staring at the baby in her arms. This was what
she and Fred were about to become—parents to a tiny, helpless human
being who would depend on them for everything.
"Are you terrified?" Betty asked Eleanor.
"Absolutely. But also happy. Labor was horrible—I won't lie
to you about that. Seventeen hours of the worst pain I've ever
experienced. But then he was here, and I forgot how bad it was."
"That's what everyone says. That you forget."
"Nature's trick. Otherwise, no one would ever have a second
child."
Rod appeared from the kitchen with coffee for everyone. He looked
as exhausted as Eleanor, dark circles under his eyes.
"How much sleep have you gotten?" Fred asked.
"Maybe four hours total in the past two days. He wants to eat
every two hours, day and night. I had no idea babies ate so
frequently."
"Welcome to fatherhood," Fred said. "In eight
weeks, I'll look just as tired as you."
They stayed for an hour, Betty reluctant to give baby Clark back,
Fred asking Rod detailed questions about what to expect in the first
days after bringing the baby home.
Driving back to Chula Vista, Betty was quiet, processing what
she'd seen.
"We can do this, right?" she asked Fred. "We can be
parents?"
"We can do this. Will we make mistakes? Absolutely. Will we
be exhausted and overwhelmed? Definitely. But we'll figure it out."
"How can you be so confident?"
"Because I have you. And you're the most capable person I
know. If anyone can figure out how to be a parent, it's you."
to be continued...
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