Last night, I went with my son to check out, his very first car. What? How is that even possible? My firstborn is 18! There’s no way that can be true. I don’t feel like I should be the mother of…an adult. The fact of the matter is, I became a mother at the age of 19. I look at my son, and wonder, how the hell was I somebody’s mother at that age? My son plays video games, and has a Blackberry surgically attached to his hand. He hangs out with his friends, and plays basketball. I was breastfeeding a newborn every three hours at that age. I lost my first love, along with my naiveté, at that age. I became a single parent at that age.
The harsh reality hit me. I was on my own, with a brand new baby boy. Dad was already occupied with another girl. Then another. Soon he found himself “not allowed” to talk to me. So any chance of him helping was, slim to none. That is how it remains till this day.
It’s now, that I can understand, what my mother must have gone through watching her firstborn go through that hardship. My heart would break, to watch my “baby” get his heart handed to him on a platter. Then left with a most precious responsibility to face, on his own.
When I look at my son, I’m happy that his life is already so different from mine. He didn’t have to become a latchkey kid at a young age. He kept himself out of trouble, by getting involved with basketball. He didn’t spend time, exclusively, with any particular girl, long-term. He’s working and taking college courses now. While he does have a new girlfriend, he’s not totally consumed by her.
My son is well-mannered, handsome, and a decent human being. He’s got a fun-loving personality that’s garnered many friendships. I see the great amount of dedication, and a job well-done, when I look at my son.