freedom

A girl/woman/mom not my own, one I didn’t give birth to, but was honored to watch grow up from a front-row seat, is having a baby.

No longer a girl, but not smart enough to use birth control “just that one time,” she called me, upset and distressed: she didn’t know what to do. She thought she was maybe pregnant, and I barked, quoting my own mother:

“There’s no maybe: you either are or are not. There’s no such thing as a little bit pregnant.”

She was, so very distraught, she admitted, so said the pile of pee sticks, and she didn’t know what to do.

In a race against legislation, I, of course, didn’t tell her what to do, I only told her what I would do, and that is, to not be pregnant, as soon as possible. No how, now way, not now, except she was in Florida, a lawless state, unless you’re a pregnant woman. Or a Black or Brown person. But I digress.

It’s against her values, abortion, and that’s why she wanted to talk to me, because, as she told me, I have no such values.

I try to be neither insulted nor honored, but was definitely the former.

While I tried not to climb through the phone and kill her and her fetus with my own two hands, I instead parented, and not-for-nothing, I’m a damn good mom, but not good enough to sway her not to stay pregnant.

I remind her she’s not having a baby: she’s having a 10-year-old who can’t find her shoes, and a moody 14-year-old who won’t wear deodorant, and a sexually active 17-year-old, and if all goes well, an almost 30-year-old who calls her late one Sunday evening to cry that she thinks she might be a little bit pregnant. Maybe. And doesn’t know what to do.

And this boyfriend – “he’s not my boyfriend” – told you out of the gate he didn’t want a kid, or a girlfriend, so you’re flying solo. If you want to be a single mom and have a lifelong, likely tenacious relationship with the financially challenged sperm donor, this is what you’re signing up for.

Whether you want to or not. These are the facts of life.

She slept on it. Weeks later, I learned she decided to stay pregnant, with a baby boy, whom she already named.

I am happy for her, for her decision, her choice, her future, her plans, and her love for a baby she didn’t expect or even know she wanted, but is already so clearly obsessed with.

I only hope her devotion outlasts the pregnancy. That she has enough left over for the next 20, or 30, or 60 years, because she doesn’t know what she doesn’t know yet: she’s not having a baby.

She’s having a human who will need her not some of the time, but all of the time when he’s young, some of the time when he’s older, and likely none of the time when even older, which will wreck her soul and break her heart into a million pieces.

But it’s all part of this life we live.

A baby is not temporary, but you can’t teach the future, and new moms know nothing of what lies ahead. Not yet, anyway. But soon will.

Like the moms before me, I’ll never say I told you so, but she’ll know that I did. I was honest. And open. And listened. And it was and is her choice.

As it should be.

I didn’t give birth to this kid, but watched her grow to a strong, smart, independent woman, and here she is, having a baby of her own who will love and call her mom for the rest of her days. And all of his.