Modern Screen (Dec 1949 - Nov 1950)

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my war with betty (Continued from page 28) were little, I came home on Saturday and in between cleaning and washing and ironing and hoeing out the house in general, I'd whip up a good old stew or hash, or even chili con came if there wasn't anything else in the cupboard. I put the food in front of them on a well-nicked table and the only music they had was the din of the kids in the street playing baseball. I didn't have time to tell them stories, and if they didn't help themselves they were out of luck. With the result that they did, and fast. And today both of them have the constitution of an ox. "Things have changed since you were a girl, mother," Betty tells me. "I have the children on a definite routine because I believe it will give them added security." All I have to say is that if the kids don't learn to eat in a hurry they'll be out of luck at the dinner table with their mother. Betty eats as though the house were on fire, ringing a bell every five minutes for a change of course, and if you don't keep up with her you have the unfortunate experience of having a full plate removed from under your nose. And if I may be indelicate enough to mention the diaper department, there wasn't nearly the rapid turnover in the old days that there is now. Betty is scared to death that the kids will get sick or that something will happen to them, and I keep telling her to relax, that she grew up against odds that are something awful when you compare them to Lindsay and Candy. You can bet that Miss Hutton and I have had some eighty-cent phone conversations on the subject of the children, but Betty takes my raving rather well. that's my girl . . . In fact, that's the secret of our success as a mother and daughter. We can shout at each other instead of at the world, and underneath it all there's something deep and lasting that a million spats can't touch. As I said before, I'm not a mushy type of woman. If anybody wanted to find out if I was proud of Betty, they'd have to ask me, and even then I'd laugh it off. What I feel is inside, and is going to stay there. I guess I have a complex about being her mother. I am afraid that if I admit she's my daughter it sounds like bragging. But she's my girl, all right. Back in 1921, though, I wanted a boy. I already had Marion, with blonde hair and blue eyes, and she was everything a girl should be. So I said to myself, "That's that. Now I'll have a boy." I almost threw a pitcher at the doctor when he told me I had another daughter. There he stood, the big hulk, with five sons of his own, telling me to be happy. I started to mutter, but he ignored me, and smiled. "My wife and I always wanted girls," he said. "But we wouldn't trade any one of the boys. You'll see. You'll feel the same way about this girl." And I guess he was right. As it turned out, it seemed that Betty was always trying to make it up to me. Not that I cared after the first few minutes — it goes without saying that any mother accepts and loves every baby she has — but Betty from the beginning was more demonstrative than Marion. She was forever coming to me to be kissed, and to this day she'll pile into my lap and give me a hug that all but dislocates my neck. I think it's possible, too, that Betty showed her affection as a subconscious defense against Marion's good looks. Marion was always the pretty one, and people always seemed eager to tell that to Betty who had straight hair and no glamor. Of course, I Mod make-ups shout Made-up!Magic Touch whispers. Natural heauly Replace that heavy "made-up" look with natural-looking loveliness by using Magic Touch. 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