To my dearest 16-year-old mom:
For five long years, I yearned to become a mother. My days were consumed with endless doctor appointments, hormone treatments, and the bitter disappointment of negative pregnancy tests. I shed countless tears and faced heartbreaking losses. The word “barren” echoed in my mind, conjuring images of a desolate, dry wasteland.
But luck was on my side. Nine years ago, my miracle arrived—his name is Oliver, and he is the most extraordinary person I have ever known.
My own entry into the world was far from a fairy tale. It was neither planned nor celebrated, and for my mom, it was nothing short of a catastrophe. Just 36 hours after her 16th birthday, she went into labor. My dad was also 16, and it was 1974—barely a year after Roe v. Wade. Though societal norms were shifting, the stigma around out-of-wedlock pregnancies was still heavy, and teenage mothers were often hidden away in shame. Reading Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter taught me the word that now resonates with my teenage mom: “ignominious.”
Refusing to acknowledge her pregnancy, my mother concealed her growing belly beneath trendy, loose-fitting tops for five months. My grandmother, only 39 at the time, discovered her daughter was pregnant while juggling five other kids as a working divorcée—she had her hands full.
Consequently, my mom was pulled from school and kept indoors, emerging only for doctor visits, while everyone agreed that adoption was the best way to keep things quiet. When she finally went into labor at Mt. Holly Memorial Hospital in New Jersey, she stayed silent. Back then, hospital policies permitted only spouses in the delivery room, and with my parents being unmarried, she was alone with only disapproving nurses surrounding her for over a day before an emergency C-section. I can’t imagine the solitude she endured.
Reflecting on my own teenage years, I realize the beauty of my blossoming body was wasted on self-doubt. My mom, however, never had the chance to appreciate her own youth. Instead of a time filled with promise, she faced deep stretch marks and a C-section scar that resembled a dissection. To me, she has always been beautiful, but I know those scars weighed heavily on her.
Unlike many, my family chose not to put me up for adoption. Upon returning home, my 8-year-old aunt, blissfully unaware of my mom’s pregnancy, exclaimed, “She’s cute! Can we keep her?” Within six weeks, my parents were married. My mom finished school through a local alternative program that involved crocheting and Cliff’s Notes, while my dad earned his GED and found a job. Until I turned 9, I was raised in a bustling household filled with aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, and even great-grandparents. It was truly a team effort.
My grandmother took on the roles of both mother and grandmother, leading to some confusion during parent-teacher conferences. We weren’t a “non-nuclear family” in a trendy Brady Bunch way; there was still a lingering scandal.
Looking back as an adult, I see that our trips in the canoe, adventures at Disney World, and lazy beach days were just as beneficial for her as they were for me. My mom often seemed like a child herself, laughing and smiling, determined to ensure I had a wonderful childhood. I was the Pearl to her Hester. I remember watching her apply makeup and choose pretty dresses, thinking none of my friends had a mom as young and stunning as mine.
Admittedly, being raised by a mother still figuring out her own life was a wild ride. It was a steep learning curve, but love was always present. In many ways, we grew up together. As I reached various ages, I often measured my milestones against her experiences:
- At 16, I pondered how my life would differ if I had to care for a fragile little human. Forget sleepovers and late mornings!
- At 17, while applying to colleges, I realized my mom’s dreams were limited not just by societal expectations but also by her responsibilities to me. Finding a “good match” with stretch marks and a baby was hardly a fairytale ending.
- By 19, I was plucking gray hairs from her head during our drives—she seemed far too young for gray hair (little did I know mine would come at 25).
- When I turned 21, I could have been the mother of a 5-year-old who could already write. Instead, I was off on a road trip to the Yukon with a guy I met over spring break.
- At 32, after years of my own struggles, I still hadn’t become a mother. The thought of having a 16-year-old of my own, or being a grandmother at that age, felt unfathomable.
- By 40, I reflected on my grandmother’s feelings when I was born. Did she worry about my mom’s future shrinking as mine was just beginning?
My mother and I often joke about growing old together, even contemplating orthopedic shoes. In many respects, we have navigated life side by side. She has been my mother, sister, and best friend. I consider myself incredibly fortunate to be her daughter, and I am endlessly proud of my teenage mom.
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Summary
This heartfelt tribute explores the journey of a daughter reflecting on her teenage mother’s struggles and triumphs. It highlights the bond they share, the challenges of early motherhood, and the lessons learned as they grew up together.