AND A HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO ME!

I almost qualify for the sobriquet "Quadramom." I'm not sure that word exists yet, but I think having four children in a 4-1/2 year period - none being duplicates - should bring it into existence. My son Sean was born in June of 1956 and he was 4-1/2 when the last of my four was born in January of 1961. In practical terms, that meant I had four pre-schoolers for 9 months until little Sean headed off to kindergarten.

I was a lucky young mom. I had a husband who was very good with kids. I had a mother living close at hand who thought my kids were the cat's meow. And I lived in a newly built tract neighborhood where all the husbands had just come from serving in the Korean conflict and were starting the next part of their lives. We all were about the same age and having children at the same time. We established a great babysitting co-op, had a Wednesday Wives early morning bowling group (10 cents a line), belonged (in between pregnancies) to a local square dance group, and made friendships that last until this day. This wonderful neighborhood made having four children in 4-1/2 years much more tolerable.

Time has caused me to remember only the good things about having these four little tykes. When they now sit around and tell me all the sneaky things they did when they were little, I simply don't believe them. They were genuinely good kids. From time to time one of them had a little slip up and required a swat on the bottom. And surprise! They didn't get damaged little psyches from being spanked.

One of the ladies down the street had more kids than I did. She had a batch of cherubic little daughters. When her little ones got into an argument, they became very physical with each other, hitting and pulling hair and kicking and the like. My little ones fought verbally, which often caused my husband and I to have to turn our backs so they wouldn't see us laughing at their worst epithet - "poo-poo head."

There was one time when I needed to run into the library to pick up a book. I parked directly in front of the library and left the kids in the car while I ran in. (In case you are horrified, back then it was a kinder, more gentle society and doing such a thing was not a problem and was not dangerous.) It was summer. The car windows were rolled down, the library doors were open, and from inside the library I could keep my eye on them. I no sooner got into the library than my four decided to have an argument. I could hear it start and I heard it get louder. I quickly grabbed a book and headed to the circulation desk, but before I got there the argument had exploded into far worse than "poo-poo head," with my oldest son and daughter using words that let me know they had been listening to my husband and me when we had an occasional spat.

At that point I noticed that all the library patrons and employees were craning their necks to see what on earth was going on, so I dodged back into the stacks until it quieted down. There was no way at that moment I was going to claim ownership of those kids! When the "fight" ended and peace reigned again, I checked out my book. As I walked out the door and headed to the car, the kids could tell from the smoke coming out my ears that they were in for it. By the time I plopped down in the driver's seat, there were four little meek, placid tots sitting primly in their assigned places. They knew exactly what to expect when they got home, and I didn't disappoint a one of them. Luckily there was a 10 minute drive to get home; if we had lived closer they might have gotten a far worse spanking than they actually received.

I loved those four children and thought I was awfully lucky to get such good kids. And except for their teenage years, which taxed my soul sometimes, I've enjoyed every minute of being a mother to them. They have grown up nicely and are still good kids. Most importantly, they are good parents to their own kids. Sean lives in Sonoma, Erin in Rialto, Bryn in Alaska, and Kerry in Los Angeles.

They remember me on Mother's day with cards, or trinkets, or phone calls, or e-mails or breakfasts, which is plenty, as far as I am concerned. When my own mother died, she left a little handwritten note to my brother, my sister and me telling us she had a good time being a mom to us. And I know exactly how she felt, because I certainly have had a good time being a mom to my four. So Happy Mother's Day to me! Thanks, kids.