Welcome to a guest post from Kirsty. Occasionally the lines of Twitter and blog blur and you forget how you connected with someone. You "bump into them" in odd sorts of ways but this is what I love about social media. I have also only just realised that Kirsty is a "local" - I'm hoping to meet up for a coffee some time soon. You will soon see why I chose to use this guest post from Kirsty.
Kirsty blogs at "Tantrums and Teardrops" and you can find her on Twitter as @KirstyHigginson
Like a typical woman I’ve been changing my mind every five minutes and I’ve been umming and arring as to what I could write this guest post about for far too long now.
Everything I decided to write about didn’t necessarily seem fitting and I started to worry that whatever I blogged about the readers of the fantastic Typecast blog won’t really be interested in and what I picked wouldn’t be the right subject matter. I’ve thought controversy, fun, serious and eventually settled on (after getting slightly wound up at the look of disgust Sophie King gave our dear Nickie at the CyberMummy11 convention in finding out she was a young grandmother) writing about the aftermath of teenage pregnancy.
Figures, statistics and bad parenting are far to often reported within media, but what about when mother and child have grown up? How is life then - do we forget to ask - or do we even care?
At sixteen, I’d been sick again and I was led on the sofa when my mother whispered: “Kirsty, are you pregnant?”
“No.” I remember answering, with my heart breaking inside. I’d huddled into a tight little ball. I wanted my mum, more than I had ever wanted her before. I was still her little girl and I’d never been so scared in my life.
“Kirsty, I’m being serious. Are you pregnant?”
I know it is a cliche but those silence was deafening and the seconds felt like hours. I’m not sure if I said, “I’m sorry, yes.” or “Yes, I’m so sorry.” I can just remember my mum wrapping her arms around me and holding me tightly, telling me it was okay ( Wow - I’m in tears here!).
And so, here I am fourteen years later, with a few lines on my face and now age thirty, proud - sometimes stressed - but more than anything proud to say that my family are my life.
You see, I’m married now and have two children. Steven is fourteen, he’s the one who made me sick in the above paragraph, Isabelle is a little madam, aged 7, and we have a dog, Max, our English Springer Spaniel, who is just over 5 months. I look back and it seems like a lifetime away, or that the memory is from someone else’s world - yet at the time where ever I seemed to go I was constantly reminded that I was a teen mum.
Before my son was born, one friend said to me that her mother had made a comment that I ‘had been such a nice girl.’ My friend had reprimanded her mum at the time and told her that I was still a nice girl and being pregnant didn’t change a thing. But I can still remember everything about that conversation, where we were , what we were doing - everything - because it hurt so much.
I’m still a nice girl (well, being all grown up now so I guess you’d have to say woman, gah!), but I just don’t care if people like me anymore. I did back then and as I believe to this day, that was my only mistake, caring what others thought. Just take me as I am or not at all.
I think I’m quite a cool mum, although my kids, especially my teenage son, probably wouldn’t agree. I’m an open book and talk about everything with him - wanking, homework, alcohol, love, friends, careers, - you name it, WE HAVE DISCUSSED IT. But at the same time I’m sensible and make sure he knows right from wrong, does his homework and takes notice of other people’s feelings and is considerate. Don’t get me wrong we have our ups and downs, especially now THE TEENAGE YEARS have hit home, but we love and care for each other.
Just the other day teenage pregnancy came up in our conversation. A vicious rumour was flying around his school. So we got talking about when I was still at school, pregnant and everyone was pointing the finger at me. I reminded him that I had gone through those rumours too and it had been hard. It was a lovely grown up conversation and in all innocence and love he looked at me and said: “Why didn’t you get an abortion?”
Feeling winded is not the word. It was a tornado.
The tears were not for going away.
“Don’t be silly,” I said, trying, in vain, to blink back the tears, “You are one of the best things to ever happen to me, I am so glad I had you. You’re everything to me.”
As a teenager he was just saying what he thought, there was no malice or upset there. He went on: “I’m sorry, I just thought you’re life would have been easier if you had an abortion and you wouldn’t have been picked on.”
“Steven,” I said, “those people just aren’t important. You and Isabelle are important because I love you both so much.”
So, please, before you pas comment or make judgement just take a moment and think first. Also, wouldn’t life be boring and quite mundane if it was easy?