Elizabeth Bockius was born in Philadelphia. She grew up in Rutherford, New Jersey and worked in New York City. By the time I met her, she had married and changed her last name. Her friends knew her as Betty. I just called her mama.
She was born May 7, 1920. To mark her 100th birthday, I turn over my Meanderings to her as she was a prolific writer who produced volumes of both poetry and stories of our life as a family. Of all the titles she may have had in her life, “mother” was her favorite.
Do You Know Where Your Children Are?
By Betty Maine
“Have you ever considered you might not be able to have children?” my friend’s mother asked.
Not have children! That wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. At least, not in the days when I was young and dreaming of getting married and having a family. That was part of every young girl’s hope. No alternatives, like having a fabulous career or even (with marriage) to opt for not having children.
My friend and I sat on the sofa in the living room of her home talking about our plans. Her wedding was days away; mine in a few months. Children, as well as marriage, were an important part of my plans.
I had always adored babies, even doll babies. Each doll, through the years, was immediately named and loved.
I kept only one of my loved dolls. Her name is Nancy (my favorite name that year).
Nancy now sits on my bed, among the pillows, smiling her eternal smile of sweetness—a reminder of other dolls and other Christmases.
And so, having such a good beginning with loving dolls, the thrill of loving live babies naturally followed. Rocking live babies, singing to them, playing with them, was a natural transition.
As a teen, the change I earned babysitting was good to get, but even more, it was earned in such a pleasurable way.
Now, here was my friend’s mother, confronting me with a possible reality for my life which I had not considered. Why, I even had a boy’s and girl’s name selected for our first two children: John Michael and Janine Marie.
Later, after several years of marriage without children, the words of my friend’s mother came back to haunt me.
The years of counting month-to-month periods without pregnancy were especially devastating since the doctor had announced there was no apparent reason why I should not be able to get pregnant.
After several long years of yearning, my husband and I discussed the possibility of a child coming into our family another way: by adoption in infancy.
And so, a son came into our life.
I gave him the name which I had carried in my heart through all the years of waiting: John Michael.
After an interval of almost nine years, a second son, also by adoption in infancy, came to join our family. He was named William Robert for his adoptive father and grandfather, respectively.
One son came with curls: the other with straight hair. One came full of motion. The other slow and deliberate in movement. Each unique in personality, as it should be.
They share a love of music, both are talented. One has the fingers for piano and other instruments while the other has the voice. They also share a deep, brotherly love.
During family gatherings, such joy has come to us from our children (even including the bumpy places).
It has occurred to me, if we had not married, our sons would be someone else! I can scarcely bear the thought of never having known them.
For a few years, some several foster children came to live with us for a while and then leave. Some went to be placed in adoptive homes while others stayed until their living situation could be improved in their natural family group.
Then there are all the children I have encountered as I tutored reading in the schools and talked about another love: poetry. And I can't forget the First Grade Sunday School children I taught along with miscellaneous Vacation Bible School children.
Never able to have children?
What a ridiculous thought!
Note from a proud son: My mother offered through the years to trace down my biological mother. I never took her up on it. Both my brother and I were adopted as infants just days after birth through private adoption. The attorney who handled both adoptions passed away years ago. His daughter took over the practice. Just before Mama died, she reached out to her only to learn that there had been a fire and the records were lost.
That door is closed forever. But it does not matter. It is not one I have ever wanted to open. My biological mother loved me enough to know she could not give me the life she felt I needed. I thank her, whoever she is…wherever she may be…because had she not done so, I never would have had Bill, Betty and John Michael Maine in my life. What a loss that would have been.
By the way, we still have Nancy. Like my mother through her writings, she lives on.
Happy birthday Mama!
