Part 147 (1/2)
”I mean the child's nurse,” said I, ”the fifteen dollar one.”
”Oh--I'm the child's nurse,” said Dodo.
”You!” said I. ”Do you mean to say you take all the care of this child yourself?”
”Why, of course,” said Dodo, ”what's a mother for?”
”But--the time it takes,” I protested, rather weakly.
”What do you expect me to do with my time, Morton?”
”Why, whatever you did before--This arrived.”
”I will not have my son alluded to as 'This'!” said she severely.
”Morton J. Hopkins, Jr., if you please. As to my time before? Why, I used it in preparing for time to come, of course. I have things ready for this youngster for three years ahead.”
”How about the certified milk?” I asked.
Dodo smiled a superior smile; ”I certify the milk,” said she.
”Can you take care of the child and the house, too?”
”Bless you, Morton, 'the care' of a seven-room flat and a competent servant does not take more than an hour a day. And I market while I'm out with the baby.
”Do you mean to say you are going to push the perambulator yourself?”
”Why not?” she asked a little sharply, ”surely a mother need not be ashamed of the company of her own child.”
”But you'll be taken for a nurse--”
”I _am_ a nurse! And proud of it!”
I gazed at her in my third access of deep amazement. ”Do you mean to say that you took lessons in child culture, _too_?”
”_Too?_ Why, I took lessons in child culture first of all. How often must I tell you, Morton, that I always intended to be married! Being married involves, to my mind, motherhood, that is what it is for! So naturally I prepared myself for the work I meant to do. I am a business woman, Morton, and this is my business.”
That was twenty years ago. We have five children. Morton, Jr., is in college. So is Dorothea second. Dodo means to put them _all_ through, she says. My salary has increased, but not so fast as prices, and neither of them so fast as my family. None of those babies cost a thousand dollars the first year though, nor five hundred thereafter; Dodo's thousand held out for the lot. We moved to a home in the suburbs, of course; that was only fair to the children. I live within my income always--we have but one servant still, and the children are all taught housework in the good old way. None of my friends has as devoted, as vigorous and--and--as successful a wife as I have. She is the incarnate spirit of all the Housewives and House-mothers of history and fiction. The only thing I miss in her--if I must own to missing anything--is companions.h.i.+p and sympathy outside of household affairs.
My newspaper work--which she always calls ”my business”--has remained a business. The literary aspirations I once had were long since laid aside as impracticable. And the only thing I miss in life beyond my home is, well--as a matter of fact, I don't have any life beyond my home--except, of course, my business.
My friends are mostly co-commuters now. I couldn't keep up with the set I used to know. As my wife said, she could 't dress for society, and, visibly, she couldn't. We have few books, there isn't any margin for luxuries, she says; and of course we can't go to the plays and concerts in town. But these are unessentials--of course--as she says.
I am very proud of my home, my family, and my Amazing Dodo.
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