To my remarkable mother, who was just 16 when she had me:
For five years, I yearned to become a mother. My life revolved around countless doctor appointments, hormone treatments, and the heartbreak of negative pregnancy tests. Each tear I shed felt tied to the word “barren,” evoking a desolate landscape in my mind. Yet, I consider myself incredibly fortunate, as my miracle arrived nine years ago—my son, Oliver, is the most extraordinary person I have ever known.
My own entrance into this world was far from planned or welcomed. For my mother, it was a life-altering event. Just 36 hours after her 16th birthday, she went into labor. My father was also just a teenager, and it was 1974—only a year after the landmark Roe v. Wade decision. Although societal norms were shifting, having a baby out of wedlock was still stigmatized, and young mothers were often forced into silence and shame. The word that comes to mind when I reflect on my teenage mother is “ignominious,” a term I encountered while reading Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter.
For five months, she hid her pregnancy beneath flowy smock-style tops. My grandmother, only 39 at the time, was already a working mother of five. With her plate full, my mother was withdrawn from school and confined to her home, only permitted to attend doctor visits. Everyone—her parents and mine—decided that adoption was the best route, aiming to keep everything under wraps.
When labor began at Mt. Holly Memorial Hospital in New Jersey, my mother endured it all in silence. Back then, hospital policies barred anyone but spouses from being present during labor. With no husband, family, or friends to support her, she faced the ordeal alone for over a day, eventually needing an emergency C-section. I can hardly fathom the solitude she must have felt.
Reflecting on my own teenage years, I realize how different my experiences were. At 16, I grappled with insecurities about my body while my mother never even had a chance to appreciate her youth. Instead of the promise and potential that typically accompany that age, she bore stretch marks and a scar from surgery. To me, she has always been beautiful, even as I recognized her struggles with self-acceptance.
Unlike many young mothers, my family chose to keep me. When I returned home, my eight-year-old aunt, unaware of my mother’s pregnancy, exclaimed, “She’s cute! Can we keep her?” Six weeks later, my parents tied the knot. My mother completed her education through an alternative program, while my father earned his GED and found work. Until I turned nine, I grew up in a bustling household filled with aunts, uncles, and grandparents—a team effort in parenting.
My grandmother played multiple roles, balancing being a mother and grandmother. Our family dynamic was unique, not in a traditional sense, but marked by lingering scandal. Looking back, I see how our shared experiences, from canoe trips to Disney World, fostered a bond that was beneficial for both of us. My mother often embraced her youthful spirit, laughing and savoring moments with me. I vividly remember admiring her as she dressed up, realizing that none of my friends had a mom as young and stylish.
Navigating life with a mother still finding herself was a roller coaster ride. Despite the challenges, love was always present, and we essentially grew up together. The milestones in my life often made me reflect on her situation:
- At 16, I pondered how different my path would have been if I had to care for a tiny human. No sleepovers, no carefree chats about crushes.
- When I applied to colleges at 17, I recognized that my mother’s dreams were limited by societal expectations and her responsibilities to me.
- At 19, while extracting gray hairs from her head during a car ride to my university, I was struck by how youthful she still looked.
- By the time I hit 21, I could have been a mother to a five-year-old, yet I was instead traveling to the Yukon with a new friend from spring break.
- At 32, after years of trying for a child, I couldn’t fathom having a 16-year-old of my own, let alone becoming a grandmother. My life felt like it was just beginning.
Now at 40, I reflect on my grandmother’s feelings upon my birth and wonder if she envisioned her daughter’s future narrowing while mine was just unfolding. My mother and I have often joked about our future together, even discussing orthopedic shoes and aging gracefully. She has been my mother, sister, and ally. I feel incredibly fortunate to be her daughter, and I am immensely proud of the 16-year-old who became my mother.
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In summary, my journey of reflection about my young mother reveals the profound bond we share, shaped by our unique experiences and the love that has always anchored us.