Remember "The Donna Reed Show"?  Boy, I just loved that thing. I knew, for a fact, that I was going to grow up and become Donna. Yep, I would become my generation's symbol of gentile, composed, womanhood. 

Sigh...how wonderful it would have been. At this very moment, I'd be sitting at my kitchen table, with a cup of coffee, a plate of still warm cookies on the table, waiting for my above average kids to come home.  The fruit of my loins would be greeted by my saintly smile, and the homey fragrances of a day's baking. Not a single hair would be out of place, nor would there be a single crease on my paisley, shirtwaist dress.  

"Ah, the phone", I would say to no one in particular, as I tossed my perfectly coifed head, and absentmindedly stroked my ever present single strand of pearls. It would be my ruggedly handsome, successful, husband on the phone, the doctor, telling me the head of the hospital, and four board members were coming to dinner in an hour.

Upon their arrival, the only outward sign of my haste would be an adorable streak of flour across my nose, and a slight blush as I whipped off my pristine apron. 

I don't suppose I even have to tell you how it turned out. I'm not Donna Reed. I don't own a shirtwaist dress; never wear pearls; and pumps?  Aren't those for bicycle tires?

Even though I'd bet the barn that Donna's smile was attributable to Miltown, her generation's Prozac, I still feel a failure for not living up to Miss Donna's depiction of familial perfection.

The fact I managed to raise two children, essentially on my own, was caretaker to a dying parent, became an executive, and even got a tattoo...I still feel grossly inadequate. Hell, the last time I wore an apron was with David, when we were playing...oh, never mind.

I wonder if Walgreen's has Miltown?

 "The Donna Myth?" by D. Gustafson, copyright Mama's Secrets, 2002.  All rights reserved.