Every morning when I wake up, I start my day going through the normal list; get up. wash face, brush teeth, get girls up, make them brush their teeth, make breakfast, eat breakfast … the list goes on all through my day. Inevitably my phone rings at some time or another, it’s some friend from high school telling me about the excitement from the night before. At that point it hits me—I really am young.
I got pregnant when I was eighteen, not yet graduated from high school. I had been with the father (four years my senior) for a considerable amount of time, we had already been talking about getting married and having a family, but I don’t think either of us were prepared for two lines on my pregnancy test. Nine months later, before I had even turned nineteen, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. She was everything I had imagined my daughter would be.
When I finally came down off my emotional high, it hit me. I am a statistic. I was a teen aged, unwed mother. While our friends were out partying, we were up in the middle of the night feeding and changing diapers. My epiphany was something my family had warned would come sooner or later, and as much as I hated to admit it, they were right. Six months later, as I was still learning to cope with my realization, I decided I was immune to birth control pills when I had two more lines pop up on a pregnancy test. Another nine months, a birthday, and an epidural later I gave birth to another beautiful baby girl. I felt like the luckiest woman in the world. I had just turned twenty years old.
Almost a year later, I sit here approaching my twenty-first birthday. I can’t help but reflect on all I have … two amazing children, a beautiful home (purchased), an amazing husband, and above all I have happiness.
I am not another statistic.
I am a mother.
I am a wife.
I am a best friend.
I am happy.