Sometimes, you can be just plain lonely

“Mommy go hop pa pul and get baby sista.”

That was my plea as soon as I began to talk. There shouldn’t be any problem with this request, I figured, since we did live right next door to the Providence Lying-In Hospital.

It was the maternity hospital for the whole city. I would often proclaim that I saw the stork on the roof delivering a new baby. Anyone who ever heard me ask for a baby sister would always smile, smirk, or giggle. I found that a little strange so, after a while, I began to ask for either a baby sister or baby brother. Maybe you weren’t supposed to ask for exactly one kind, I thought.

You see, I was lonely. I did have a sibling, a brother, but he was 5-1/2 years older than me. He was no fun, and it got worse the older we got. When I was in elementary school, he was in junior high. When I got to that level, he was in high school, etc. When I was young, I was not able to go by myself to play with the kids that lived up the hill, or even the ones who lived down the hill, since we lived on a rather busy street. Beside that, they all had siblings that were close to their age, so they always had a playmate. They really did not need anyone else.

My dad was a college graduate, but Mom was not. Since she did not drive, and we had a small house that required little maintenance, she read incessantly. She read at least two to three books a week, so she was very self educated. Fiction was not her favorite genre; thus, she was always learning something new. Her copy of Dr. Spock was absolutely dog eared, and my brother and I were simply products of the times. Back then, it was considered anathema to coddle or cuddle your children. She followed Dr. Spock’s orders to the letter.

Marriage was a lifesaver and filled that loneliness gap to a great extent, but it was not until they put my firstborn into my arms that the longing for the closest of relationships was fulfilled. Those were the days of sweet contentment. I vowed that my own children would never feel lonely. I played with them constantly, taught them diligently, took them on excursions, studied cookbooks, so I could cater a bit to their likes and dislikes, etc.

Then, of course, these cute little darlings grew up and flew out of the nest. Once my last child went off to college, that empty feeling returned. My husband was changing jobs at that time, too. His new work would require much travel, so he was gone three to four days a week. I could moan and be gloomy, or I could do something about it. I sat myself down and made the bucket list early. I got to work on it immediately. I went out and took watercolor and oil painting. I remember asking the teacher if it was possible to teach someone with no talent to paint. When he agreed that was possible, I knew this would not be a lifelong hobby for me. Next were piano lessons for the very first time in my life. After all, we had a piano just sitting in our room in the basement once my daughter finished many years of lessons. It seemed such a waste. I quickly realized, however, that I never moved forward, but just sideways in the type of books that the piano teacher presented to me. I gave up.

I tried pottery – very hard, bending over the wheel. I crocheted an Afghan and knit a throw, which I even took to the movie theater because I was afraid if I put it down for just one evening, I would never pick it up again and finish knitting the piece. I did some needlepoint and crewel and many types of crafts that I often cut out of magazines. It was, however, my six women’s clubs that I threw myself into that was my salvation until the time when my husband could retire. It got me out of the house into meetings where I met many interesting, dedicated, and accomplished women, and now I could do some genuine volunteer work.

With each succeeding day as I grow older, I want to fill my life with giving and fun. I tell my grandchildren I am going to live life to the fullest, and go out “swinging” in any which way I can!