I have a confession to make…
I never wanted to be a mother when I was younger. I can
recall a moment in middle school when a girl who was a good friend of mine in
elementary school told me that she thought she was pregnant. She was cradling
her stomach and humming soft songs to herself. My first internal reaction was
revulsion. I could barely put together a school project; how could someone my
age possibly take care of a child? Why would anyone possibly be happy with that
situation? How could she be so cool and relaxed about it all? She ended up
getting excited over a false alarm. After that, I kept my distance from her.
Callous? Perhaps, but it was so similar to the circumstances surrounding my
birth that I couldn't bear to be around her. She wanted to keep trying, and I couldn't be around to watch.
Unfortunately for me, it was a similar situation into which
I was conceived. The woman who gave birth to me was 14 when she became
pregnant, and my dad was 16. I ended up being the real thing instead of a false
alarm. For years, I carried the guilt that my birth had ruined my parent’s
lives. To some extent, I still wonder. If I had been a false alarm, would
things have turned out differently for them? Neither of them had been ready for
parenthood at that age, and they both knew it. Her father tried to convince her
to have an abortion. Finally, they settled on giving me up for adoption. I came
very close to a very different life than the one I have, all without any say.
Thankfully, my father fell in love with me at first sight and couldn't let me
go. You can see it in the photos taken at the hospital after my birth; my dad
had my tiny fist wrapped around his finger, and his eyes were gazing at me in
love and wonder. She looked as if she had better places to be. Probably disappointed
that my dad no longer wanted to allow her the option that would have let her
walk away.
My grandmother volunteered to raise me, and it was to my
grandparents’ house that I went home for the first time. When I was around 3,
my father brought home the woman who would become my mother, the woman who
has loved me from the moment she heard my tiny voice cry, ‘Da!’ when she came
through the door with my dad. I was very fortunate to have some very loving
people in my life as a child.
Still, all of this turned me off to the idea of having a
child. What if the maternal instincts of the woman who gave birth to me were
somehow hereditary? What if I ended up being like her? I couldn't handle the
idea of a child feeling about me the same way I felt about her. I didn't want
to be responsible for hurting a child like that. I was afraid of ever having a
child. So I made up my mind not to have children. I didn't want to take the
risk.
Fate usually has a different plan in mind than the one you
have for yourself. At the age of 20, I found out I was pregnant. I have never
been more afraid in my life. I was afraid of being responsible for someone
besides myself. I was afraid to have a tiny life dependent upon me. I was
afraid to tell my family. I was afraid because we lived 4 ½ hours away from
home. I was afraid of how ecstatic my fiancee was. We were working
commission-based jobs that had both of us traveling all over the state and didn't
guarantee any sort of steady income, how could he be happy with this? So many
women would have been thrilled to receive the news that they were going to have
a baby. What was wrong with me?
My family’s reactions were all over the map. My grandparents
were excited to become great-grandparents. My grandpa was looking at bassinets
online. My mom was pretty pissed. My dad asked if I had considered all my
options, and told me he supported me with whatever choice I might make. My mind
was made up, however. We were responsible for starting the life of this child,
and I wasn't going to harm it or give it up, even if my fiancee had been in
agreement. And so I reluctantly decided, a little too late, to become a parent.
We moved back home when I was about 6 ½ months pregnant. I
barely showed even when I was about to give birth… I carried far back,
and just looked chubby. Matter of fact, when I was a few weeks away from giving birth, I was working a temporary job and informed them that I could possibly go into labor at any time. They had no idea I was even pregnant. I had morning sickness all throughout the summer, and
lost weight until my 7th month.
The nurses were thoroughly amused when I told them I was happy to have started gaining weight. They told me that most women aren't that happy about it. I had been
worried that all of my morning sickness had been keeping my child from being
healthy. I felt like the character of Jenna in the movie Waitress… I still
didn't feel anything like affection for the child inside of me. This increased
my anxiety about my maternal potential. I didn't want to end up like the woman
who gave birth to me. People around me told me that my life was going to be
over; it would no longer be mine. How right they would be, but not in the way
they meant it.
I woke up on my due date, a Friday morning, with cramps…
Eventually, I realized that they were coming at regular intervals. After timing
them for a bit, I realized they were a minute and a half apart and remained so
until I gave birth 12 hours later. I was more afraid of giving birth than I had
been when I found out I was pregnant. What was going to happen once this little
guy - who had a fondness for wedging his feet into my ribs - took his first
breath?
At 9:35 p.m., I found out. I saw him for the first time, and
I knew exactly how my father had felt. I fell in love with him. He was my
heart, and my world, and it was right that he was part of my life. The doctor
laid him on my chest after he was born, and the world I knew stopped. The life
I had before that was over; a whole new one had begun. How anyone could turn
their back on that? I couldn't fathom it. His soft skin, his tiny face and
hands and his sweet little breaths all quelled my fears. He didn't know it, but
in that moment I resolved that he would never feel about me the way I felt
about the woman who gave birth to me. I would use my childhood to make myself
into the mother he needed me to be.
It has been 7 ½ years since the day my new world began. My
son is still the one thing that can make me happier than anything else on
earth. We've been through a lot together, and times have been tough, but even
at this young age he knows that I will be there for him. And my pride in him
knows no bounds. He is tall, fit, strong, handsome and smart. He is wonderful,
and he has made me a better person. He is a Momma’s boy, without question. His
at-the-hip attachment can be overwhelming at times. However, I take it in
stride, because I know that in just a few short years the affection won’t flow nearly
as freely as it does now. I can’t bear to stifle his affection and love. I sing
him to sleep most nights, and he still loves it when I do. I know that these
days, too, are coming to an end. However, I feel confident that they will be
cherished memories when he’s older. He’s becoming more independent, and he
performs stunts on the playground equipment that have my heart in my throat.
I sometimes wonder how I could ever have had the doubts I had.
It seems so long ago, and so surreal, that I was afraid of this. It was, and
still is, the best thing that ever happened to me. Perhaps for me, the mantle
of motherhood was one that I fought against until I found that I wore it well.
