Here's my embarrassing story — though actually it's my mother's.
My mom taught high school in the thirties to help put my dad through medical school.
Then he finished, and they started a family.
Just in time for my dad to enlist on December 8, 1941.
When my mom was nine months pregnant.
Without telling her first.
She had my first sister a month later.
He went off to the navy, and she moved in with her mom.
Later she got a job at the War Department, while my grandmother and various aunts babysat.
Even though the medical beliefs of the day favored scientific bottle-feeding, my dad talked my mother into breastfeeding.
He thought the bottle-fed babies he saw looked pudgy.
So we were all breastfed, five of us.
My grandparents lived on the trolleyline, just outside DC, and my mother was running home every day to nurse her baby.
And after a day at work, she really needed to run home immediately.
She would come in the door, head straight for the baby, tearing off her shirt and bra on her way into the nursery.
So one day she came in the door, as usual, pulled her shirt off, tugged her bra down, and looked up to see a former student of hers standing there, turning bright red.
"Hello, Mizz Oldenburg….uh, I'm just fixing the phone line for your mom."