“Momma, what did you want to be before I was born?”
I’m leaning in the doorway as my mother stands at the kitchen sink washing dishes. The sun is shining through the window, bringing out the red tint that marks the only difference in our otherwise identical hair color. Without skipping a beat she replies to my question, “a hairdresser.”
I crack a smile. I can imagine my mother back in the day, with her big perm rivaling the thick curls that lay around my own face, fussing over the heads of her friends and dreaming of owning a salon. It’s the same feeling I get as I imagine the days of my dad running off to Philadelphia and Nashville with just his friends, a guitar, and a dream. First, amusement…then guilt.
Our story isn’t unlike the story of many other small town families. My mother was 16, a high school junior, when she had me. She packed me to school every day while my father went to work. They were married for almost 15 years before they divorced. In that time they had two more kids, lived close to the entire family lineage, and did whatever they needed to do to make ends meet. It was a simple life for two individuals who are anything but.
I first experienced feelings of guilt when I started high school. As girl after girl in my graduating class became a mother, I really started thinking about myself, and my birth, differently. I had known some of these now mothers (and fathers) since elementary school. I knew their talents, their dreams, and their lives. Now, here they were raising their own kids.
I found myself looking at pictures of my mom and her high school best friend. I thought of how similar my best friend and I were to them, concerned only with boys and music and pretending to be tough. The two of us didn’t even do our homework in high school. I couldn’t imagine going to school, taking care of a baby, cooking dinner, cleaning house, AND doing my homework.
It awed me to think of everything they sacrificed for me. I felt strange and embarrassed. I had been an accident, a life-altering, path-changing accident. I had been a mistake.
It’s a peculiar feeling knowing that your very existence is a coincidental slip-up of the universe. For a while after this realization, I felt odd around my extended family. I thought of the arguments and tears that ensued after the news of my mother’s pregnancy spread. Did they really change their minds when they held me for the first time? The love of my family is unconditional; this I knew undoubtedly. My paranoia was unjustified, yet it was hard to shake.
I looked at the other kids who were born to teenagers. Most of us had been in the high school’s nursery together. I wondered if similar thoughts had ever crossed their minds. If they questioned what life would be like for their parents if they hadn’t been born. I wanted so badly to ask them if they ever felt like a mishap – a mistake.
The toll my birth took on the lives of my parents really hit me when it was time to start college. Despite being divorced, my parents are now good friends. When it came time for freshman orientation, they both wanted to go. When the whole thing was over and done, I found the two of them strolling around campus. My mom was proudly twirling a black and gold umbrella as they both excitedly chattered. They looked at me, their eyes sparkling, like I had won Olympic gold.
It occurred to me then that I was doing something they had both dreamed of. I might be a bit biased but I think most anyone else would agree that my parents are intelligent and talented people. They are both musicians and debaters. My father is an amazing artist. My mother is a remarkable writer. They have a love for books, history, science, and random trivia. With such strong personalities and a desire to learn, they could have been anything. Instead they became my parents before they had even grown up.
It also occurred to me that I was their accomplishment. True, my birth was the furthest thing from planned possible. The thing is, my parent’s never once looked at me like I was a blunder. They did, however, look at me like I was a goofball, like I was beautiful, like I was a genius, and like I was the greatest thing they had ever seen.
Believe me – I am not a fan of teenage pregnancy or marrying young. I’m one of the biggest advocates for easy access to birth control and contraceptives. My family’s life was difficult. My parents’ marriage didn’t exactly work out. Reaching the place we are now took a tremendous amount of struggle and dedication. This amount of hardship is common for anyone who has a child when they are, really, still a child. Any CDC graph or study will show you that.
However, when looking at numbers and statistics it’s easy to forget about the actual people behind them. If life was perfect, I, and a lot of other people, might be a lot younger than we are. It isn’t perfect, though. Out of all the things my parents might change, I’m definitely not one of them. My parents are my heroes, my inspiration, and my world; and I’m their daughter – not their mistake.
