Bringing up Baby

I nearly didn't make it into the world at all. If it hadn't been for the skill and courage of a country doctor in Murtoa, neither Mum or I might have survived the birth.

Mum was 32 years old, small-boned, and carrying a large baby. As the hours passed, it became apparent that the labour was not progressing, the baby was not advancing down the birth canal, and the head was not properly engaged.

In short, I was stuck.

The doctor decided to attempt a 'high forceps' delivery, a highly dangerous procedure. Today the situation might be dealt with by Caesarian section, but this was 1940, in a small country hospital, ill-equipped to deal with major surgery. To the undoubted relief of all concerned, Mum was delivered of a nine pound baby girl, badly battered and bruised about the head, but alive.

Mum, who must have been pretty battered herself, nevertheless insisted that I should be baptised on the spot. (Catholics believed that children who die unbaptised cannot go to Heaven, but must remain in a place called Limbo until Judgement Day.)  She named me Marcia Imelda.

I was virtually unscathed by the necessarily rough treatment - some babies delivered like this can suffer brain injuries, but I have only a small bump on the right side of my head, and a tiny bald spot, to remind me of my narrow escape.

The doctor was Dr. S. Rabl, and Mum always spoke of him with great respect and gratitude.  Dr. Rabl was of German descent; his father, also a doctor, had come to Murtoa from Germany in the 1870s.

Once the drama of the birth was over, and Baby was pronounced out of danger, Mum could have expected to enjoy the rest of her 10 days'  'lying in period' - wearing her pretty bed-jackets and basking in the admiration and congratulations of visitors. Until it was noticed that Baby had developed not one, but two nasty abscesses in the folds of her fat little neck.

Baby was vociferous in her displeasure at this, but Dr. Rabl wouldn't let her go home until the abscesses were lanced, and showed signs of safe healing. There were no antibiotics then.

Finally the day arrived when we could go home. My parents had only a horse and buggy for transport back then, so Grandad Maher came down from Minyip to take us home in his car. On the way, he and Mum stopped in to register my birth - the certificate shows that it was September 11th, 1940. I was two weeks old, and I already had three permanent scars on my body.  Did Mum wonder "Whatever next?"

Mention might be made here of the prevailing attitude to the care and feeding of small children. Infant mortality was still high in the early part of the 20th century - and astonishing number of children died of diahorrea, and vaccination for childhood diseases was still in its infancy. Modern, ‘Scientific’ theories of child care were in vogue, with good reason and the best of intentions.

The guru of childcare was a New Zealander, Dr. Truby King, who believed and taught that babies should be treated and reared on the same strict regime that worked with farm animals, calves in particular. He published his book on childcare in 1910, and his teaching was still being followed in the 1940s. “Babies,” he said are “controlling and manipulative from birth, and it is necessary to teach them obedience by making them learn that crying will get them nowhere”. He considered it “a dangerous indulgence” to respond to a baby’s crying: “crying is necessary for health, essential exercise for the lungs”.

Dr. Truby King advocated feeding infants on a rigid, four hour schedule. It was thought that this allowed adequate time for digestion. (Some blame him for the steep post-war decline in breast-feeding.) No night feeds, strict routines of sleep, feeds and fresh air, and it was considered unnecessary to play with your baby. If babies did not sleep when they were supposed to, they were seen as trying to “manipulate and dominate their mothers.”

  State Governments had set up Infant Welfare Centres across the country, to educate mothers and monitor the progress of babies. These centres were run by trained Welfare Sisters, who weighed baby and counselled mother on the weekly visits. Many of the Sisters, though undoubtedly well intentioned, were martinets, who addressed their clients as Mother and Baby - "Baby doesn't seem to be gaining as much weight as she should." and  "Mother, you must make sure to keep to the proper routine."

Many mothers were terrified of them; it takes a good deal of confidence to disregard the 'experts' when your baby's wellbeing is involved. Poor Mum's anxious nature and nursing background made her a sitting duck for such as these, and added considerably to her distress when things didn't go as expected.

And they didn't. I simply didn't fit the mould. A large baby, I screamed for more food long before the four hours were up, and not getting it, I didn't gain weight as rapidly as I should have. All too soon, it was decided that my mother's milk 'didn't suit me' and I was put on a bottle. All those years ago, and I still get angry, just thinking about it! How must Mum have felt, to be told that her milk wasn't good enough?

Maybe just relieved, when the Lactogen that was prescribed seemed to satisfy my appetite, and I began to gain weight. And no wonder, Nestle's Lactogen was considerably higher in carbohydrate than breast milk, (not to mention the sugar that was added to the formula) without any of the benefits.

 All was peaceful for a while, but we weren't out of the woods just yet.

To be continued