BABIES

In Defense of Becoming a Too-Young Mom

I had a deep ouchie in my heart, but I’ll take highly-flawed parenthood over some alternatives

“Mama is her only epithet and synonym for God and the Government and the one force of majesty and intelligence obeying the call of pity, hunger, pain, cold, dark — MAMA, MAMA, MAMA.”

-Carl Sandburg, in: “Seventeen Months”

If you want to wound your daughter — or your son or nonbinary child — into one day becoming a fretfully young parent, it’s simple. Frown whenever she plays with dolls.

Knit your brow and go silent at her child-related questions. Gossip about your kids’ pregnant babysitter for being a divorced, single mom. Let your children overhear it.

And most importantly, neglect your daughter. Tell your little girl she’s “the best thing” you’ve ever done, but spend time with her rarely. And as a parting kiss to her short childhood, tell her you’d rather buy her some swim goggles than a Water Baby.

I can still hear the Water Baby commercial’s song [external link]. At seven, I was enthralled with the warm, wiggly doll. My best friend, Erin, got “twins” for her 7th birthday. Two Water Babies? I would have been thrilled with just one.

I met my babies’ daddy while wearing swim goggles. Okay, maybe it was during the dryland workouts before our college swim practice, but still. It was while I was doing things I was “supposed” to be doing, as a woman who was fresh out of her teens.

Irresponsible. Reckless. Ruined my life. Ruined my partner’s life. These words weren’t in the mouths of my loved ones or my partner’s family when I got pregnant at twenty, but they didn’t have to be.

I felt their disdain.

My mother was excited at first. Strange. And even weirder was the speed with which she flipturned into lament.

“I’d wanted more for you,” she said.

I hadn’t. I wasn’t ready to admit it to myself yet, but being a mother had always been my most sacred wish. I’d felt it calling to me as I watched other families’ closeness and love — investments that paid dividends and used time as a currency.

And as with all things dear to me, I’d told no one — especially not my mother.

I was expected to be infertile. Told so at eleven years old. So it was the peak of privilege to give birth at 21 to a child I was able to keep, thanks to a supportive (and supporting) partner. It’s a gift to be able to live a secret dream — provided that you’ve earned a degree (I did).

Provided that you’re doubly privileged — educated enough to have a prayer at supporting yourself (I was).

Parenthood at almost any age can be a godsend — provided that you’re fairly sure you and your child won’t be going it alone, or that either of you will feel Sandburg’s “hunger, pain, cold, dark.”

Provided is the key word. Someone else provided money and a comfortable home. Someone else provided the safety of an extended family that did not discard me. I begged, bought, and borrowed a childhood’s faith that it would be okay. But everything else was furnished to me like a turn-key apartment for a mistress.

I forgive myself for being irresponsible, for leaving my birth control at home after a weekend visit. I didn’t want to call my dad and ask him to drive up to my college and bring my pills.

“It’s a sex-mergency!” I imagined explaining to him, despite the fact that I wasn’t getting any, anyway. There was no reason to believe my old flame would show up at my room late one night, boosted by a friend through a dorm lounge window.

My own recklessness was much harder to forgive. While I could have told Joe he needed a condom, I didn’t. I can’t get pregnant anyway, I knew. But had I not been in love with him, things might have been different.

My life was not ruined, nor was Joe’s. Our water baby arrived and came home to loving — and really really young — parents. It’s the happiest I’ve ever been to be in the wrong.

Our son was joined by five more wriggling, jiggling siblings — none of them twins, but each just as thrilling. And the babies’ parents grew up to be graduate students, homeowners, foster parents, community volunteers, highly-imperfect, ever-evolving caregivers, married partners, clients who went to years of individual and couple’s therapy, and incomprehensibly grateful people.

Privileged. And so fucking grateful.

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