“You’re a good mom, Daisy,” he whispered.
I felt the tears rise in my eyes. Was I a good mom? Since the moment December had been put in my arms more than twenty-seven years ago, I had wanted to be a good mom. But ever since then I’d felt as though I’d been trying to force myself into a mold I didn’t fit. It shouldn’t feel that way.
Something one of my mother’s well-intentioned friends said to me when they learned I was not putting my baby up for adoption came back to me: “There are some choices you can’t undo. You’ve already made one; don’t follow it up with another bad decision.” That comment had haunted me. Had I simply been building on that first wrong decision—getting pregnant in the first place—all these years? When that woman had shared her thoughts, I’d been seventeen years old, bloated with a baby that, honestly, freaked me out when it moved around in my belly. I took her words as a kind of challenge. I would prove I could do this. I would not give in to people’s limited expectations of me.
My own friends were avoiding me by then; I had broken the illusion of invincibility that teenagers needed to justify their dumb choices. The people at church were judging me and advising me and making predictions they couldn’t know were true: “You’ll end up on welfare.” “You’ll never get an education.” “You’ll ruin that child’s life.”
I was determined, though, with the help of my eighteen-year-old Prince Charming, to prove otherwise; I wanted so badly to prove otherwise.
December was three months old, and I was still unmarried and living in Scott’s parents’ basement, when the bloom began to fade on the rose. Three months after that, I was living back at my parents’ house and trying to ignore the “I told you so” glances from pretty much everyone. I finished my GED via night school and avoided welfare because my parents let me live at home expense-free in exchange for being able to use me as an example to my brother and sisters.
I’d tried to be the right kind of mom, but I couldn’t do it on my own. And my mother’s help came at a high price—mostly self-respect, independence, and good ol’ pride. At the age of twenty, I moved out on my own for the first time, with more predictions of failure nipping at my heels as I went. My job as a secretary at an insurance company made it possible for me to get a studio apartment for December and me, so long as we were both content with eating ramen noodles most of the time—which we were. Mom still watched December while I was at work, but I reveled in no longer having a crib next to my bed in my childhood bedroom.
After a year with the insurance company, I received my certification to do quotes for potential clients. I added a few more certifications to diversify my potential and finally got my license to be an agent after I’d been working there about three years. As soon as I was offered an agent position—I’d been applying within the company for several months by that point—I jumped on it and moved to Los Angeles, California, where, for the first time, I had my very own office and my very own clients. December was five and didn’t like going to day care after having been with Grandma every day, but what else could I do? She started kindergarten that fall and we . . . adjusted.
I had a few relationships in those first few years in LA, but nothing that took off until I met Jared through a woman I worked with. He was the sun, moon, and stars, and if I ever questioned that, he was quick to remind me of it. We were just getting serious, just beginning to talk about a future together, when—surprise—I was pregnant.
Out of wedlock.
Again.
I panicked.
I could not have another baby alone. Hadn’t I learned this lesson already? I saw only one solution—one thing that would prove I was not some kind of bimbo idiot. I needed to get married this time. Lucky for me, Jared wasn’t completely opposed to
I felt the tears rise in my eyes. Was I a good mom? Since the moment December had been put in my arms more than twenty-seven years ago, I had wanted to be a good mom. But ever since then I’d felt as though I’d been trying to force myself into a mold I didn’t fit. It shouldn’t feel that way.
Something one of my mother’s well-intentioned friends said to me when they learned I was not putting my baby up for adoption came back to me: “There are some choices you can’t undo. You’ve already made one; don’t follow it up with another bad decision.” That comment had haunted me. Had I simply been building on that first wrong decision—getting pregnant in the first place—all these years? When that woman had shared her thoughts, I’d been seventeen years old, bloated with a baby that, honestly, freaked me out when it moved around in my belly. I took her words as a kind of challenge. I would prove I could do this. I would not give in to people’s limited expectations of me.
My own friends were avoiding me by then; I had broken the illusion of invincibility that teenagers needed to justify their dumb choices. The people at church were judging me and advising me and making predictions they couldn’t know were true: “You’ll end up on welfare.” “You’ll never get an education.” “You’ll ruin that child’s life.”
I was determined, though, with the help of my eighteen-year-old Prince Charming, to prove otherwise; I wanted so badly to prove otherwise.
December was three months old, and I was still unmarried and living in Scott’s parents’ basement, when the bloom began to fade on the rose. Three months after that, I was living back at my parents’ house and trying to ignore the “I told you so” glances from pretty much everyone. I finished my GED via night school and avoided welfare because my parents let me live at home expense-free in exchange for being able to use me as an example to my brother and sisters.
I’d tried to be the right kind of mom, but I couldn’t do it on my own. And my mother’s help came at a high price—mostly self-respect, independence, and good ol’ pride. At the age of twenty, I moved out on my own for the first time, with more predictions of failure nipping at my heels as I went. My job as a secretary at an insurance company made it possible for me to get a studio apartment for December and me, so long as we were both content with eating ramen noodles most of the time—which we were. Mom still watched December while I was at work, but I reveled in no longer having a crib next to my bed in my childhood bedroom.
After a year with the insurance company, I received my certification to do quotes for potential clients. I added a few more certifications to diversify my potential and finally got my license to be an agent after I’d been working there about three years. As soon as I was offered an agent position—I’d been applying within the company for several months by that point—I jumped on it and moved to Los Angeles, California, where, for the first time, I had my very own office and my very own clients. December was five and didn’t like going to day care after having been with Grandma every day, but what else could I do? She started kindergarten that fall and we . . . adjusted.
I had a few relationships in those first few years in LA, but nothing that took off until I met Jared through a woman I worked with. He was the sun, moon, and stars, and if I ever questioned that, he was quick to remind me of it. We were just getting serious, just beginning to talk about a future together, when—surprise—I was pregnant.
Out of wedlock.
Again.
I panicked.
I could not have another baby alone. Hadn’t I learned this lesson already? I saw only one solution—one thing that would prove I was not some kind of bimbo idiot. I needed to get married this time. Lucky for me, Jared wasn’t completely opposed to
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