Motherly Care and Motherly Concern

It was back in the early 60s. I was twelve years old. Looking forward very much to the next day. I was going on a school excursion to Copenhagen. We had to suffer two museums – I suppose in order to justify the expense of a special train for the whole school – but the reward would be an evening at the amusement park Tivoli Gardens. The rides were wild (according to the standards of that time), and my mother apparently was a bit worried.

 

“Be sure to wear clean underwear”, she said. “I have put some on your bed. You never know what can happen at a place like that. What if you have an accident and are taken to hospital. Imagine what a shame it would be, if your underpants were dirty.”

 

I admit that I wondered a bit about her priorities. The shame that would follow from wearing dirty underwear seemed to be rated as a greater disaster than a broken leg or a cracked skull.

 

“And be sure to put your undershirt on the right way”, she added. “Don’t get the front and the back mixed up. What if they have to operate on you and turn you the wrong side up?”.

I looked at her. I’m not sure whether there was a glint in her eyes or not.