One day when I was in second grade Sister Wilhelm swept into our classroom and announced that she would be our teacher for the rest of the year because Mrs. Curran, our regular teacher, was having a baby and could not work anymore. For Catholic school kids in the 1960s babies were a commodity; the mothers of most of my friends were producing them on a regular basis, but then little Bobby Fitzpatrick asked The Question. “Sister, where do babies come from?” he asked.
Thirty-six 7-year olds collectively held their breaths while Sister Wilhelm looked at Bobby from behind wire rim eyeglasses. Sister Wilhelm was a kindly, old nun, but as with all nuns, we learned early it was best not to push her. “Ask your parents,” said Sister Wilhelm.
I took Sister at her word, and that night I asked my mother where babies come from. Mom never hesitated. ”Babies come from God,” she said.
Years later I asked my mom about her answer and she said she would never insult her kids by giving them the stork story, but that in those past, innocent days telling a 7-year old the truth was not remotely a possibility. Now however, I felt vaguely that this was not a wholly satisfying answer, but it sufficed until the day I overheard my mother chatting with a new neighbor. “And do you have children?” Mom asked Mrs. Flynn, and Mrs. Flynn shook her head. “We have not been blessed,” she said mournfully. “I’m so sorry,” said Mom, and they both nodded sadly.
When Mrs. Flynn left I confronted my mother. “You said that babies come from God,” I said accusingly, “so why doesn’t God give Mrs. Flynn a baby?” My mother thought for a long time before inspiration hit. “Ask your father,” she said.
At dinner, I asked my father why Mrs. Flynn did not get a baby while my mother got 6. “Who’s Mrs. Flynn?” said my father, confused, and my mother quickly brought him up to speed. My father thought for a long time before speaking. “Some women just don’t get babies,” is what he finally came up with, as though there were some type of celestial baby-raffle. “Why?” I insisted. “Because God moves in mysterious ways,” he said.
Not long after this, I was eavesdropping on my mother and my teenaged sister who, for some reason, were in the bathroom together. “Well,” I heard my mother say, “this means you’re a woman now.” This was followed by some details I did not understand.
While Mom was tucking me in that night I asked if my sister was going to have a baby.
It takes a lot to rattle my mother, but this did the trick. ”Why do you ask?” she said, elaborately casual.
I explained that since God gives babies to some women, and my sister was now a woman, did that mean she would be getting a baby soon. “Wait here,” said Mom. She left the room and came back a minute later with my father. “Tell your father what you just told me,” she said, and I did.
My parents looked at each other then at me. My father apparently drew the short straw. He took a deep breath and said that my sister would not have a baby because God only sent babies to married women. In 1967 this was very true. He should have just ended there, but he ventured where angels fear to tread. “That’s why nuns don’t have babies,” he concluded triumphantly.
I thought about Sister Wilhelm and the other nuns at my school. They were mysterious creatures who still wore full skirts and wimples, with wooden rosaries around their waists and a plain gold band on their left hands. I remembered the day that Angie Doyle asked Sister why she wore a wedding ring if she wasn’t married.
“I am married, ” said Sister solemnly . “All nuns are brides of Christ.”