6. And then we had children

 

My sisters obediently went to high school, but I was too dumb for that. My father's motto still being:  'you can achieve anything if you set your mind to it', he put it down to laziness.  It took me half a lifetime to be able to say out loud that I am not a studious person. That I'd rather be doing things than be poring over books. That that's really all right. From the moment I was allowed to work, I knew how to be diligent.

 

So I went to the Havo (higher secondary school). I failed the second year. And when I failed the same year for the second time, my father threw in the towel. It was apparently my choice not to do better, so I was sent to the Mavo. ‘I’ll allow you until the age of twenty-one...' and so on. One of the reasons for the Mammoth Act was to facilitate progression to a higher level of education, and I made grateful use of this, albeit in the wrong direction. Our legislator wanted the pupils to grow and rise above their hopeless existence, but I preferred to descend. At least, that was my father's opinion.

 

I wasn’t very dilligent at the Mavo either, but I got through damage-free and afterwards  with three friends I attended a course for elderly care.

From the moment I was allowed to work in an old people's home, while still in training, I blossomed. Finally, I was allowed to roll up my sleeves and get to work.

 

I was the odd person out there. In those days, this work was mainly done by girls from the lower classes. They were good, hard-working girls, but their use of language and politeness towards the old people left much to be desired. I once saw a colleague snarl at a lady of 85 years old, telling her to finish her diner, 'otherwise there will be no telly tonight'. One day, a nice lady came to work with us to polish the girls’ manners. It turned out that that was not the only thing that needed teaching. Many girls were used to a diet of potatoes, beans and bacon. Fresh vegetables were a rarity and mostly considered inedible.

I could also write a book about my working life, but this story serves a different purpose.

 

I had a friend from secondary school who went to nursing school in Vlissingen. Her name is Maria and I still see her regularly, because after our training and our various wanderings we came to live near each other again.

The nautical college was also in Vlissingen. There were only boys at the nautical college and only girls at the nursing school. Thus, Vlissingen was a kind of marriage agency. In the week before Christmas, the nautical college used to have a Christmas ball and it was the practical custom to invite the whole nursing school. Once, Maria took me there and that's where I met Jan.

 

I  started my first job before Jan. Eventually, my darling father was so proud of me when I passed the course, that he gave me a little car.

So, being mobile, I raced to Vlissingen at every opportunity in my bright red deux chevaux, for as far as racing was possible with this car. I slept at Maria's and I went out with Jan, at times accompanied by most of his roommates and their girlfriends. And by Maria, of course. With a bit of good will, we could cram nine people into my little car. Once we went to a concert by the Dubliners. They performed in the vegetable auctionhall out in the fields. Ten people and a bottle of gin in a deux chevaux, driving the unlit countryroads of Walcheren. It makes sense that we do not trust our children when they go out.

 

Jan was a hardworking student. He passed his final examinations of the 'HTS-structured' course for chief mate in one go.

 

Until Jan started his education, the nautical college was a trainingschool. You first went to school for a year, then out to sea for a couple of years and then back to school again. After every two years of this type of training, you would rise to a higher rank. From student/deckhand, to fourth, third, second to first mate. As first mate, you could become captain. At the end of the 1970s, the shipping companies joined the race to innovate education, and this professional trainingcourse was artificially raised to the level of higher professional education. They called it an ‘HTS-structured’ education. This meant: it is a technical education but it is not a real HTS. As a result, new students needed at least a Havo diploma, including mathematics and physics, to be admitted. Chemistry was an extra advantage. Thus, many of them were good students and chose not to go to sea after finishing nautical college but, honouring the idea of the Mammoth Act, continued their studies at university. Others chose a career as manager in a company, because there was more money to be made there than on the high seas.

When Jan was at nautical college, the shipping companies appeared before the classes, literally begging, for God's sake, to come and work on their ships, so serious was the shortage of personnel in the fleet.  Therefore, after graduation Jan got a job pretty quickly, and went to sea for four months.

I was busy with my work and further training.

 

After two years we got married. Jan had become second mate very quickly, and when we were married I was allowed to join him on board. I did that a few times. Although I was bored to death, the sea was fantastic and I visited many lovely ports. I could write a book about this episode too, but that also must wait for another time.

 

And then the children arrived.

 

In 1993 our son Sam was born. Jan was home on leave. Sam was born without any noteworthy complications. The maternity nurse was a nice rotund experienced lady, bursting with stories about how it used to be. Too bad I didn't write them down then. We were given a 'growth book' in which all the facts about little Sam were noted. After a few days, we were called by the health centre. Someone would come by for the heelprick. After a month, we reported to the clinic for the first check-up as we were supposed to. Sam was weighed and measured for a growth curve to be drawn. After two months, we had to report back for the first vaccination. He was very sick for one night. The growth chart instructed us on what was expected of us as parents and when we had to report back to the clinic (CB). We all loved it, this good care. Sam developed very well, neatly keeping to the CB's growth instructions. We were proud parents with an approved baby. What more could we ask for?

 

The first ‘infant consultation centre’ (Consultatie Bureau CB) in the Netherlands was established in The Hague in 1901, by initiative of the general practitioner B.P.B. Plantenga. In the beginning, the CB was only intended for the poor and disadvantaged. Nowadays, every mother is expected to have her baby or toddler checked regularly at the CB.

 

What Dr. Plantenga did was extremely necessary. In Plantenga's time, many babies - twenty percent - died because mothers did not know how to prevent it. For the most part, they actually weren’t able to prevent it. In those days, poor people were often malnourished. Some mothers simply did not have enough milk, and artificial nutrition did not yet exist. Doctor Plantenga devised a way to make babymilk from cow's milk. This was an enormous success and Plantenga's initiative was copied throughout the Netherlands. Mothers could collect the milk free of charge, exactly enough for so many bottlefeedings a day. They had to hand in the dirty nappies to prove that their babies actually got the milk, presumably to prevent the other children in the family from drinking it. Hence the regularity: so many bottlefeedings a day, to be given at fixed times. Along with the free milk, the mothers were instructed how to take proper care of their babies.

 

Many people were uneducated and poor. There were no social services, only charity. Slums really were slums. Unheated houses, polluted streets, coalstoves. Children had to work from an early age. But the 20th century was the century of progress, of modernisation, demanding more and more educated people as workforce. It was no longer acceptable that people lived in slums and died of hunger or infectious diseases. I imagine that the upper class at that time was aware of its responsibilities. It was probably also in their own interest, but without the will and the efforts of that elite, the underprivileged of 1900 could never have been lifted up out of their misery.

 

After a while, Consultation bureaus for infants also took on the care for toddlers. And when most of the more scary diseases had been banished, the offices would not be abolished. All sorts of things were wrong with the upbringing of Dutch children. In 1938, at the third Congress for Preschool Care, it was argued that preschoolers were better off at a school in professional hands, than at home with their mothers, so I read in ‘Kwetsbare kinderen. De groei van professionele zorg voor de jeugd.’ [Vulnerable children: The growth of professional care for youth (PCM Bakker)].

 

In my opinion, the consultation bureau in The Hague marks the beginning of the caring society. It was the kick-off of Ellen Key's century of the child, in which every effort was made to protect the growing child from poor health, poor education and poor upbringing.

It also marks the beginning of the search for reasons why some children are different. From day one, parents were the main suspects.

 

I was not aware of this when our Sam was born. I felt a free mother, Jan felt a free father. We just had children, like so many other parents. We thought it was the most normal thing in the world to have children and start a family. How wonderful it that sounds: to start a family. Jan had a good job. I had a job. We lived in a nice flat and dreamed of a house with a garden one day. What was wrong with that?

 

Jan and I enjoyed the maternity period. It has its advantages, being a sailor. When Jan was off work, he was really free. We were able to enjoy Sam together for two months. Then the brand new dad went back to sea. Saying goodbye was suddenly a lot harder!

 

I had a very sympathetic boss at the time, and I got some extra leave because my husband was a sailor.

After six months, including some unpaid leave, though I don't remember how much exactly, I went back to work. For Sam, I had found a nice, older lady who looked after him on Mondays and Thursdays a our home. On Tuesday and Wednesday, my parents came. On Fridays, I was free.

It was a wonderful, carefree time. I even spend a few weeks with Sam on board with Jan for during the summer, when he was on a line in European waters.