Sandra Dee and Bobby Darin:

Confessions Of A New Grandmother


This article, By Mary Douvan (Sandra's mother) was told to Rose Perlberg, appeared in Screenland Magazine July, 1962



It's been all wrong, the way it's happening. If you go by the books, that is. According to tradition, the prospective grandmother is the Rock of Gibraltar. She's there, at her daughter's bedside, calm, comforting--assuring the nervous mother-to-be that everything will be fine, the first one is the hardest. She's there to welcome home mother and child--cool, capable, soothing, "Leave it to Mother, darling. Mother will take over."

That's how it's supposed to be. But in my family, it was the daughter who begged, "Please, Mom, will you stop pacing? I'm timing the pains. Mother, will you sit down and get some rest? You look ghastly . . ." And then, safely home, "Mom, for goodness sake, will you relax! Honestly, Mother, the way you carry on! Can't you understand that these little things aren't nearly as fragile as they look?"

Okay! I admit it. From the very beginning, Mother-to-be was as cool as a dewy blade of grass; Grandmother-to-be was as shaky as a willow in a typhoon. Father-to-be was strutting like a king penguin well before the arrival of his son. (Directly afterwards, the grandmother was in too much of a daze to accurately register anyone's reaction!)

I write this--close to three months later--mother, father and son are doing splendidly, but grandmother is still dazed.

It's not the new addition who's got my head in orbit--it's my daughter, the little monkey I thought I knew so well. I guess I was wrong. I guess I still have a lot to learn--because that young lady has been shocking me with regularity ever since the eventful day--December 16, 1961.

I was a little worried when Sandy first became pregnant. After all, she was so young, she'd only been married for a few months and her career was going full blast. I couldn't help wondering, Does she really want this baby? I didn't have to wonder for long. By the fourth month, it was quite obvious that Sandy wanted the baby more than anything in the world. All she could talk about was "my baby."

By the sixth month, it seemed that the whole world knew Sandy was pregnant and more bets were being placed on whether it would be a boy or a girl than on the steeplechase races! Sandy was convinced from the beginning that it would be a boy. She and Bobby even decorated the nursery in their new house baby blue and white.

As December, the final month, loomed closer, Sandy was bouncing around more than her active little-one-to-be! I kept urging her, "Honey, lie down and get some rest, you're going to wear both of you out!" She'd flop down obediently, but a second later she'd pop up, her big brown eyes lit up like Christmas tree lights, imploring: "Mom! Darn it, why does it have to take so long? I can't wait to have this baby!"

I finally started teasing, "You should be glad you're not an elephant. They have to wait two years!"

She was so excited about becoming a mother that I didn't have the heart to warn her it isn't always as easy as it seems in the movies. Privately I thought, The poor little lamb. She doesn't know what she'll be going through. But birth was smoother sailing for Sandy than a toy boat in a bathtub. She breezed into the hospital right on time. She had Dodd Mitchell with no complications whatsoever and, two days later, they practically had to tie her down to keep her in bed!

Four days later, they released her. It was either that--or risk the chance of her breaking out! Sandy literally couldn't wait to go home and be a full-time mother. I thought to myself, Okay, Grandma, better brush up on your diaper-wielding technique. She's going to need plenty of help.

My speculation was based on personal experience. I'd had Sandy when I was about the same age--19. And I'd hate to tell you how much time I spent in the public library prowling through dusty shelves for books on child care. By the time I was ready to go to the hospital, I'd assimilated enough "advice" to star on a quiz program! Still, when we came home--after a much longer incarceration--I was so jittery, I was afraid to touch her. My aunt, a trained nurse, had to take over bathing her for the first few days. Even after I'd mastered bassinet and diapers, I'd holler, "Mother! Help! every time Sandy wailed off-key.

I was prepared to bravely step in... so what happens? In marches my daughter with her child in her arms... and no one else is allowed to touch him. His father was the only exception to the hands off rule.

I was prepared for a million frantic questions. I didn't get one. Sandy took over the complete care of her baby from the minute she came home. Everyone was flabbergasted at how professionally she handled Dodd. I remember the first day, we all gathered in the nursery, while Sandy changed and fed him. I stood at attention, ready to lend a hand, but it was far from necessary. Charlie Maffia, Bobby's brother-in-law, who raised him and now is his personal road manager, stood there, with his eyes popping out of his head, muttering under his breath, "Fantastic! I don't believe her. I don't believe her!" Finally, he turned, nudged me and whispered waggishly, "Hey, Grandma! You been holdin' out on us. She's handling this kid like it was her tenth one!" I couldn't even answer.

I don't know where Sandy picked up this mother instinct. Maybe it's just natural. It must be--she never had an opportunity to learn about taking care of children. She never even read any books on the subject. I still can't get over how cool and calm she is about Dodd. She hasn't sat down for five minutes since he was born, but I honestly can't say she's ever been flustered. To this day, she hasn't come to me for one thing. Oh, she'll say, "Ma, did I do that right?" But only after it's been done.

Charlie can't understand it either. All you have to do is mention Sandy and baby in one breath and he's off again--in that same first-day trance--shaking his head incredulously and murmuring, "Amazing! Simply amazing."

For the first four weeks, Sandy wouldn't even entrust Dodd to a trained nurse. As a matter of fact, they'd hired a nurse--but she didn't start until the middle of January, when Bobby, Sandy, Dodd, Charlie and I went to Las Vegas, where Bobby was headliner for a month at the Flamingo Hotel.

Vegas was actually the first chance I got to do anything for my grandson--and then, only because I marched into their bungalow, like an old-time suffragette, with my umbrella poised and declared I'd had my request in for a solid month and how come it had been ignored! Now, I'm beginning to wonder about my daughter... Could be, she rates a Phi Beta Kappa key for psychology. I mean, who in their right mind would leap enthusiastically at the "opportunity" to take over a 6 a.m. feeding? Only a grandmother who's been kept tantalizingly at arm's length for a long month!

Anyway, all kidding aside, the only reason I rated substitute's place on the feeding team was because Sandy was feeling a little under the weather and her doctor flatly decreed that she get a solid night's sleep.

Other than those few days, Sandy did everything. She and Bobby were up, right on the button, for the feedings at the prescribed four-hour intervals. Bobby playing father was another thing that surprised a lot of people. I guess they thought he was going to be kind of above it all. That's where they don't know Bobby. Sandy insists that he was born to be a father. I don't know about that--but I will say that he's marvelous with Dodd. From the very beginning, if Dodd was crying incessantly, Sandy would yell for Bobby. Bobby would pick him up, rock him a little and it worked like magic -- in two seconds, Dodd was beaming and cooing.

Sandy says that Dodd is a miniature Bobby--a compliment, which Bobby doesn't deny! One early afternoon in Vegas (the time equivalent to early morning in normal-living towns) she burst excitedly into my room to report that Dodd was snapping his fingers just like his famous daddy. "The next thing you know," I said dryly, "he'll have his own night club act." Without blinking, Sandy agreed, "Probably. You know, Mom, he already does the Twist. Really! Last night I was changing him and we had on Ray Charles' 'What'd I Say.' Dodd was twisting like crazy. I could hardly get the diaper pinned!" And at the age of 8 weeks. All I can say is, "Chubby Checker, watch out!"

I do know for sure that Dodd digs music--as the lingo goes. The kids took him backstage during Bobby's rehearsals for the Flamingo show and he loved it. At the risk of sounding like a prejudiced grandmother, I did notice him keeping time to the music... The louder and brassier it is, the more he seems to like it.

This I cannot personally vouch for, but his parents claim Dodd started "talking" at seven weeks. The way Sandy told it, and wry solemnly, too: "We were backstage after Bobby's first show and the maitre d' came to congratulate Bobby. Dodd was lying in his carriage, pretending to be asleep--actually, he was listening to every word. The maitre d' leaned over him and said, 'Hi, champ.' Dodd opened his eyes, smiled and answered, 'Hi.'"

The way the maitre d' told it, "Honestly, Mary, I'm looking at the kid and for kicks, I say, 'Hi, champ!' and darned if he doesn't make a gurgling noise that does sound like, 'Hi!' Well, you should have seen Bobby and your daughter. She stares at him and he stares at her. They both look at the kid and then they bust out laughing. She says, 'See. I always told you we were going to have an exceptional child!'"

Regardless of which version you prefer, I'll bet it's easier for most people to accept the fact that a seven weeks old baby talks than to believe that my little daughter has smashingly conquered the role of wife and mother. Even my friends, who've known her since she first started talking, anxiously ask, "Mary, how is she going to manage? She's such a frail, delicate child..."

Sandy may look like a fragile doll--but, let me tell you, she has a spine of steel and more energy than a nuclear reactor. I don't know where she gets her stamina--it may come from her great-grandfather, who, at a spry 88, still plays bass fiddle at every church affair, back in New Jersey.

I first discovered how strong a featherweight can be back in the fall of 1956, when my husband passed away quite suddenly. I fell apart like a doll's house in a hurricane. Sandy took over. Completely. She handled the friends and relatives who came to pay their condolences like a mature woman. If she felt she had to break down, she locked herself in her room. She was completely composed outwardly when she came out. Sandy has always been able to hide her emotions.

I'll never forget the night she came into my room, very late--long after the last sympathy-wishers, had departed. I was completely out of it. I'd spent my whole day moping in my room, moaning, "What am I going to do without him?" She sat down beside me on my bed. I saw her eyes were red; I knew she'd been crying, maybe five minutes before, but for my sake, she was putting on a brave front. I knew she felt her daddy's loss just as much as I. I knew I should be comforting her.

But somehow, the roles were reversed. She was the one who came to me, who sat there, holding my hand, looking at me with those grave eyes that shone with the compassion and sad wisdom of an older woman and seemed so out of place in her round, child's face. She was the one who held me tight, murmuring soothing words as I sobbed uncontrollably on her shoulder. And she was the one who gently drew back after a few minutes and said softly, "Mom, listen, please listen. You've got to think of it this way: It's better for Daddy now, it really is. Mom, you know Daddy. If he'd lived, he would have been an invalid. Daddy could never have stood that, he would have been miserable. Daddy couldn't bear to sit still for half an hour. Can you imagine how he would have felt if a doctor had ordered him to bed for half a day, for the rest of his life. He couldn't have taken that. Think about that, Mom. And then you won't feel so bad..."

When I slowly began to pull myself together, it was Sandy who took over the eating, the sleeping, the keeping house. It was Sandy who made all of the arrangements for us to go out to Hollywood where she was to make her first screen test--the appointments with the studio, the hotel accommodations, the legal settlements. She was all of 14.

Since then, no one has made Sandra Dee's decisions for her. The people who think that a strict studio and a domineering mother manipulate her like a puppet, ought to try pulling the strings.

Most people don't realize this. I can tell that every time I'm interviewed about Sandy. They see her as a dainty little princess, living in a lovely little dream world. They think she's never had her feet on the ground, that her life has been one big fairytale, that Bobby Darin was the traditional Prince Charming and that when she wakes up and finds life isn't like a Hans Christian Andersen story, it will be all over.

All I can say is, they've got the wrong gal. Sandy may have led a sheltered life but she's quite a level-headed realist. Sure, she has moments when her head is in the clouds, but those feet come down to earth real fast. They have to. The glamour, the fanfare and the recognition of a show business career is as surface as a coat of furniture polish. Underneath, it's a rough, tough business and if you want to make a go of it, you have to work and be willing to make a lot of sacrifices. Most of all, you have to be aware of what you're doing every minute of the time.

The more successful you get, the more responsibilities you have and the harder it is to maintain your position. If you don't make the initial decision to enter the business in the first place, you can be pretty miserable. Despite what you may have heard--the decision was entirely Sandy's.

Sandy made her first movie, "Until They Sail" for MGM in 1957. All of a sudden the big columnists - Louella Parsons, Hedda Hopper, Harrison Carroll - were raving about her. In the next four years, she did 16 pictures, back to back. The first year, she starred in six and her schedule was fantastic. The shooting on one would finish at 5 p.m. At 7 p.m., there'd be a studio party, which we had to leave early because she was due to leave at 6 a.m. the next day for a tour publicizing the movie she'd made right before it. It wasn't unusual for her to have wardrobe fittings for movie number three in-between filming scenes of number two. She had no time to relax. We were constantly on the go. But I want to make one thing very clear: Sandy led this kind of life for only one reason--because she wanted to. No one pushes Sandy around.

This also holds for her marriage. Sandy went into that with her eyes wide open and her feet planted solidly on the sands of the Italian Riviera. I must confess, that then, for the first time really, I doubted if she knew what she was doing. It wasn't that I disapproved of Bobby--I liked him from the minute I met him--it was strictly the idea of marriage. I didn't think she was ready for it.

In the beginning, I probably spent more time with Bobby than Sandy did. I didn't know a thing about him before we went to Italy in the fall of 1960 for "Come September." I'd read one magazine article that made him out to be a cocky, conceited character. I thought, Oh, gee, this is going to be rough on Sandy. Then I met Bobby and I was pleasantly surprised. He's bright, charming and he has the maturity of a man twice his age. We became very good friends. He'd tease me all the time--in that show biz "hip talk" which is really only a front--"You better get used to having me around, Doll. I'm going to marry your daughter!" I'd laugh and say, "Come around in a couple of years and she'll be old enough."

Then one day, Sandy came to me and gravely announced that she was seriously thinking of getting married.

I was pretty shocked. I stared at her and blurted, "What are you talking about? You're just a baby!"

She shrugged and smiled that little mysterious half-smile--which I should have recognized as the sign that she'd already made up her mind. "How can you think of something like that?" I demanded. "You've never dated; you have no experience."

It was true. She'd never had a normal teenage life; she'd been so busy with making movies, she really hadn't had time. She rarely went out on a date that wasn't for publicity. I used to worry about her. She didn't even go through the "crush-a-day" phase. And now, she wanted to get married. I was sure that she was making a mistake.

I tried to point out all of this. She listened soberly. When I paused for breath, she said quietly, "Mom, remember what I used to say in interviews, if they'd ask me when I was planning to get married?"

"Yes," I said. She'd always had the same answer: "I guess I'll get married when I fall in love."

She fixed those big brown eyes on me and she said simply, "It's happened, Mom. I'm in love and I'm going to get married."

And what can I tell you, my "little baby" surprised everyone--including and possibly especially--her old mom, by taking on the role of a wife as if it were tailor-made!

The people who said she couldn't do it are resigned to eating their words. Those who bet that Sandy can't be a wife and a mother and have a career won't even finish in the money. She's already proven she can.

Sandy started her first movie since her baby in March. It's also her first adult-type role. In "If A Man Answers," she plays a sassy young lady who falls for a commercial photographer. The love scenes are going to be pretty potent because the photographer is Bobby Darin! For the first time, her fans are going to see the sexy side of Sandy - she wears a black merry-widow bra and black tights in several scenes. It's a whole new image for her, and so far, she's doing a magnificent job. They've only shot about a week of it, but already Ross Hunter is going around with a great big grin.

As for Dodd, Sandy's return to the cameras doesn't mean for one second that he'll be neglected. Sandy is up at 5 a.m.--two hours before she's due at the studio--to give Dodd his breakfast, bathe and change him. Bobby gets up at six, but stays home an extra hour. His call is later than Sandy's--she has to spend two hours every morning in hairdressing and makeup. The nurse takes care of him during the day and turns him over to Bobby and Sandy when they come home at 6 p.m. They spend all day Saturday and Sunday with him.

Bobby's the typical proud father. This is his boy and everything about Dodd is special. He takes a million pictures--but only for the family. Bobby has very firmly laid down a "no photos" law. Even before Dodd was born, he declared that he wouldn't allow his child to be "exploited for publicity." He meant it. I don't believe that Bobby is being "deliberately uncooperative," as some members of the press have complained. He's sincere when he insists, "My son is going to get every possible chance to lead a normal life." I'm not saying I agree, but I do respect Bobby's wishes to keep the spotlight off little Dodd.

Despite the way they adore him, I have a feeling that Bobby and Sandy aren't going to spoil Dodd. If any spoiling is done, his granny will probably be the guilty party. As a matter of fact, I've already been accused. After Bobby finished at the Flamingo, mid-February, Charlie and I persuaded them to take a little vacation. Sandy hadn't stopped running since Dodd was born and she was exhausted. They left Dodd with me and took off to Palm Springs for four days. I'll admit it, I over-indulged him a little. How could I help it--he's such a doll! When they came back, Sandy teased, "I'll tell you, Mom, one more vacation and I'll have a spoiled brat on my hands!"

Everyone asks me if Sandy and Bobby plan to have more children. At the moment, I honestly don't know. I do know, though, that both of them are crazy about children, and Bobby's often said he wants a big family. As for me, I could take a dozen, if they were as cute as Dodd!



Back to the Darin Tribute



Home | Updates | Sandra | Career | Fun & Fans | links

SandraDeeFans.com
 © 1997-2006 bobbydarin.net/bobbydarin.com, All Rights Reserved.