When I first found out I was pregnant, I panicked. Thoughts of telling my parents scared the hell out of me. Thoughts of telling my friends made me feel ashamed. Here I was, barely two months out of high school and knocked up. While everyone else was going to start college, I was going to have to get a job and start getting huge. And oh fuck, now I have to get married.
When I got pregnant, I actually had no prior plans. I hadn’t applied for any colleges because by the time I finished high school, I had no desire to go right away. I totally had the plan to “take a year off”. I had moved out of my parents house and moved into my boyfriends apartment because playing house was fun. I was job searching and just enjoying being a lazy bum.
Telling my parents was incredibly hard, I cried my way through it. We softened the blow by stating we were getting married first. Three days from now. I still remember his exact quote (as I was already bawling my knocked up face off), “As you may have already guessed, Miss is pregnant.” So yeah, come to the courthouse on Tuesday at 1:00 ok mom and dad? In every single one of the pictures from that day, my dad looks pissed and miserable.
Sigh.
I don’t think I have to say that my parents quickly got over it and were the most wonderful support system I could have asked for. They still are. But that isn’t the point of this post.
When I was pregnant, I didn’t really tell anyone outside of my family. My best of friends knew but that was it. I mean, I let a guy that just about everyone of my friends completely hated, make me a statistic. I was 18. He was an asshole. I was an idiot. It’s the classic love story. I felt like a total moron. I was deeply ashamed of myself and ashamed of the child growing inside of me. I was a selfish, insecure girl.
And then he came. He changed my life. The minute the nurses put him in my arms, my entire life had purpose. I could not even look at him for very long without my eyes filling with tears, without struggling to catch my breath because he took it away. Yet, all I wanted to do all day was stare at his perfect little face, to touch his tiny little fingernails, to smooth his thick brown hair. He was everything I never knew I always wanted.
He is, he will always be, my everything. He still takes my breath away, and its not just because at the end of most days, he smells like a foot.
And yesterday, he had his last day of 2nd grade.
My boy. He’s clever. He’s witty and sharp and quick to make a joke. His comedic timing is better than mine. He’s my biggest fan and I his. At 8 years old, he knows how to take a joke. When he told me that he wanted to play soccer again this year, I told him he could but that he “better not suck like last year.” His dad was shocked to hear me say that, in a totally deadpan voice. My son? He looked straight at me, and erupted in laughter with an “Oh mom!” He knows me better than his father does, and his dad has had going on 13 years to figure me out. We constantly tease each other and sometimes I forget when speaking to other kids, that they don’t quite know that I’m full of sarcasm and are in fact taking me seriously. If he happens to be there, he just tells the kid “oh she’s kidding” with a classic eye roll.
I remember that third grade for me was the first year that I was scared of going to school, of not being smart enough. I don’t think that my son has ever had this fear. He’s smart. He’s social. He woos every single teacher and staff member at his school. I walk in and he is being gushed over by all the aides. As we walk out of the school, all I hear is “Bye buddy! Have a good break! See you next year!” coming from all sides. They don’t know me, but they sure as hell know my kid. One of my proudest moments of him during second grade was as I went to pick him up from school, the after school aides asked me if me and him were running a marathon that weekend. I was seriously confused because me? Run? HAR. After she explained a bit what she meant, I realized that my son had told them about the March of Dimes Walk that we were participating in for Maddie that coming weekend. “He is really excited about it” they gushed. I explained what it was for and we all got a little misty as he walked up and took my hand to walk out the door with his mama.
3rd grade. These milestones keep happening, as much as I beg them to slow down or stop even. It’s all moving too quickly but at least I can remember slowing down sometimes, and walking with his hand in mine.
I keep forgetting he’s 7. I know that 7 doesn’t mean grown. But 2nd grade? Already? I mean, really. It’s going by far too fast for me. It’s hard to remember a time before now. I mean, yea I have pictures and video but it’s just not the same.
