The first few years you realize people no longer have any expectations of you. Society, family, friends, strangers: all assume you've halted your path to being a responsible adult and will lead a depressed liability of a life as a loose-moraled chain smoker on social assistance. These initial reactions are overwhelming. Having overcome a rough time at home when I was 13-14, I was in a good place at 16: I got good grades, was president of a local youth group ("Young People Helping People"), just finished my first summer job as a Youth Health Promoter, and had a good group of friends. I was a headstrong kid and when I found out I was pregnant I decided to seek the normal life I thought I would have had otherwise and to be a great mom. Teen mom stereotypes just pushed me harder. I moved out of my parents' house when I was three months pregnant (lined up an apartment for four days after telling them the news in case things went dire), quit smoking as soon as I took the pregnancy test, tracked all of my food intake daily to make sure it followed the Canadian food guide for pregnant mothers, went to my normal school for as long as I could, I took my driver's license as soon as I could, had a natural childbirth, breastfed for 15 months. I was determined to not become a loser and to raise a confident kid.
I wanted so badly to not be a stereotypical young parent thing that I unnecessarily made things hard on myself. The biggest example of this was to try to make things work with my baby's father, when it was hopeless from the start, leading to ten years of being miserable and painstakingly low on cash. I also had a hate on for any special treatment and felt like I had to be a responsible adult like, yesterday. So I refused special schools for teenage parents, fast-tracked grades 11 and 12 in one year so as to complete OAC a year early, went to University (graduated English Literature Cum Laude and Social Work with High Honours), worked part-time during the school year and full-time during the summer (admin at Visual Arts Department, homework club tutor, book club moderator), refused to do homework until after putting Liana to bed, put her in extra curricular activities from age 3 (swimming, ballet, art, theatre, skating) and threw frequent big sleepover parties and birthdays for her.
There were costs I didn't even realize I was paying at the time. Friendships suffered because I was too busy to make them a priority and 17 year olds aren’t sure how to be friends with someone with a kid (do they still invite me to places knowing I can't go? do they have to hang out with the kid?). It was difficult to make new friends because I had nothing in common with people my own age. In University the other students were out on their own for the first time in their lives with no responsibility. I had lived on my own for over two years already and my evenings and weekends were reserved for watching Barney and going to the park. To this day I get a pang of sadness when I hear my husband or friends talk about University dorm life, parties and nightclubs - it's like a right of passage that I missed. Oh and I can't dance. I can't dance because when I was 19 I'd tuck my daughter into bed at 8pm and go to bed shortly afterwards. Meanwhile other people my age got good at dancing.
I assumed those first few years would be the hardest and I guess they were. But there were long term effects I hadn't realized. Mainly this: for the rest of my life, almost anytime I meet anyone, having a baby at 17 will come up.
Darcy once told me that before our first date he was chatting with a friend who asked how he felt about me having kids and he told her he would be okay with it but I’d have to be “fucking amazing.” I like to look back on that as “aww, he thought I was fucking amazing” (right back at him!) but it also speaks to the higher standard I have to (or feel I have to) achieve in every aspect of my life. Without kids I may have attracted Darcy if I ranked a 5 and were nice. With kids, I maybe had to rank an 8, be funny, smart, compatible, and charming.
Teen pregnancy is this necessary and awkward topic to breach everytime I meet people and I meet a lot of people. Think of how often people ask if you’re married or have kids. Or ask if your pregnancy or baby are your firsts. Yesterday alone this came up three times: esthetician doing my makeup, hairstylist curling my hair, and random girl at a girls night I attended. I even got the ol’ “what were you 10?!” (last head a mere three weeks ago at a baby shower) which might be intended as a compliment but ruined by the implication of teen promiscuity. Meeting Liana’s teachers and friends’ parents feel especially latent with judgement. Co-workers talking about the drama on the show Teen Mom at social gatherings ranks high on the awkward scale, too.
These last 13 years I’ve dealt with these situations by avoiding people, beating them to the punch by bringing it up myself, cracking jokes about it, making them feel awkward for asking, and, the worst, which I haven’t done in a long time, not mentioning her or outright lying (in situations like the esthetician that I’ll never see again). People ask in varying weird ways, too. Some outright tell me I can’t have a 13 year old because I’m too young (no, really, teenagers can get pregnant, true story).
The feelings it conjures up are a messed up mix of not wanting to be asked about it (no one wants to recall almost daily a stupid mistake made as a teenager) and simultaneously wanting to boast about one of the most important people in my life that I’m proud of. There’s shame, guilt for feeling shame, and hard-earned acceptance. All felt while emanating (false) aloofness because no one means to delve into the full extent of what they're implying.
For the most part I’m used to it all. I truly love my life. I have an amazing husband, kids, friends, family, dog, house, job and hobbies, and I don’t feel jealous/envious of anyone. Liana is far from one of the teary-eyed kids on the NYC “not now” ads. She’s a confident teenage girl with a normal life. And maybe one day I’ll find the perfect thing to say to a stranger when told I’m too young to be her mom.
