Free My Mother Was Nuts by Penny Marshall Page A

he finished counting her fingers and toes he was in love with his little girl. As for her name, all Mickey knew was that he didn’t want Robin or any other birdlike names. As we traded suggestions, I remembered the name of a girl I liked from camp, Tracy Saturn. Tracy was a happy name, as my mother would have said. I liked it. She was Tracy Lee Henry.
    I tried breastfeeding Tracy, but my milk didn’t come out. They put her on Similac and gave me a shot to dry up the milk in my breasts. In the meantime, I developed a kidney infection. So there I was, with an ice pack on my chest and a heating pad on my sides. It was lovely.
    They kept me in the hospital for nearly a week. Back then they didn’t kick you out in two seconds like they do now. When we finally took Tracy home, our studio apartment seemed even smaller. I emptied out a dresser drawer and she slept there. It was an instant nursery. Despite my happiness and relief, I was disappointed at not being able to go to camp that summer. If not for getting pregnant, I would’ve been at Diana-Dalmaqua again.
    But I adapted and turned my attention to being a mom. I fed Tracy, bathed her in the kitchen sink, and learned to rest her in an infant’s seat on top of the dryer or the idling car when she couldn’t go to sleep. I didn’t like the morning feedings, which I had to do when Mickey started school again in the fall and traveled with the team. Otherwise he was good about getting up with her.
    I lost twenty of the fifty pounds I’d gained right away. It melted off. I’m sure it was all the running around I did. Like most new mothers, I was amazed at how much work was required for this tiny thing that didn’t do much. I remember being thrilled when Tracy was finally old enough to prop herself up in her playpen and hold her own bottle just like my mother had me do.

    At the end of summer, we moved to a two-bedroom apartment. It was roomier and cheaper than our studio, and Mickey was closer to school. After seven weeks at home, I went back to work, too. Mickey’s grandmother watched Tracy, as she’d done with Mickey and his sisters. We also used their swimming pool. I don’t know what we would have done without them.
    We had nothing. Our one luxury was a diaper service. It had been a gift, and we had it for three months. I was supposed to rinse the poop in the toilet before putting it in the diaper pail. Sometimes I forgot and the toilet clogged. Hey, I didn’t pretend to be the paradigm of motherhood or domesticity. But I never forgot the strong smell of ammonia in the diaper pail. Just lifting the top for two seconds let out a blast that burned my eyes.
    In 1965, my New Year’s resolution was to find work that didn’t require me to get up in the morning. I wanted some kind of life back. My mother suggested that I try teaching dance. Ordinarily I ignored whatever advice she gave me. It was a reflex response. She said something, and I kicked back. But this time I listened. I made a list of dance schools and looked for a job.
    My first stop was the Litka School of Music, the city’s top dance school. The owners, Muriel and Adolph Litka, liked my experience and hired me on the spot. They knew how to sell. In a press release, they described me as a Junior Rockette, a June Taylor Dancer, and the winner of the
Ted Mack Amateur Hour
. Even I was impressed. “At the Litka School, she will specialize in precision dancing, acrobatic ballet, and tap dancing,” they said. “She can also teach some jazz.”
    As if that wasn’t enough, they added, “Her brother, Garry Marshall, is a writer for Danny Thomas’s production company, which includes shows starring Dick Van Dyke, Danny Thomas, Lucille Ball, and Gomer Pyle.”
    I knew Gomer Pyle wasn’t real. Likewise, my credits weren’t entirely accurate, either. But why correct the Litkas? They were happy,and I was employed. The hours were exactly what I had in mind. The preschoolers came in at eleven o’clock and the older