Lies, Lies, Lies

It’s not that I actually lie. I don’t physically open my mouth and say the words; or intentionally mislead.

I just sit back, mouth closed, and allow whomever to believe what they want to believe—that I’m older than I am, that I spent years between high school and college running around and having fun, then got married and had a child, then went back to get a college to get my degree. That I have exceptionally good genes or some type of beauty regime that keeps me looking like I’ve just turned thirty.

Actually, I am thirty-one. K will turn 15 this summer, and I will turn 32. The truth is that I dropped out of high school at the very end of the school year and went straight to college. With a baby. And I was younger than the other freshman—not older—only being seventeen.

He was two; I was nineteen.

 When people ask why I have a GED I tell them the story of how I owe the Nana every single commencement ceremony I can ever be part of for the rest of my life, because I missed my high school one. I don’t tell them by how much I missed it—which was two years.

My grandmother always said that people may ask, but they don’t really want to hear your troubles. They want to seem polite, or perhaps don’t know what else to say, but they don’t want the actual details. I remember her telling me this late one October night, as she confided to me that she was dying, and made me vow to tell no one else—not until the holidays were over.  I was thirteen, and the memory of us sitting in her tiny bathroom, crying over the news, is indelibly marked in my mind. Forever.

I kept that promise. I suppose I’ve always been good at keeping my mouth shut.

I’ve found her words to be true. My grandmother was one of the wisest people I’ve ever met. And while I no longer consider my ‘tender’ age to be a problem, lots of other people do.

So I say nothing as others around me make assumptions. I don’t state to others that I’ll be 35 when my son goes off to college.  That I gave birth to him six weeks short of my seventeenth birthday. And I laugh off the stares I often get from other mothers at his school who don’t know me, and cannot seem to figure out if I’m a babysitter, an older sister, or a mom.

I also never wanted anyone to judge my son for my choices. I never wanted him to feel embarrassed by me. I did not want this to be the defining point of his life. So I worked my ass off to be better than from which I came. To make others proud of me—including my son. To get a graduate degree and a good job and something other than this to talk about-- to pull the focus off my age and into other areas.

Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. It frustrates me, and it makes me tired. There are people out there who are not very nice, if you didn’t know. There are people out there who assume that because you are a (former) teen mom, you must be on welfare. That you are not smart. That they need to dumb down what they say to you. That you, obviously, do not know what’s good for you or your children. That they have the right to stare at you and your child as if you both have three heads.

It’s not true—not for me, and not for many others.

I would never assume you’ve been one of those to judge a woman for her age, but if you find yourself thinking back to a time where you did… can you please do me a favor? Can you stop and FEEL the next time a situation like this presents itself to you? Can you try to put yourself in that woman’s shoes? Can you get past the initial urge to judge, and feel the ways how you may be able to support or help? Everyone makes mistakes (parenting or otherwise), and while some are larger than others, we all can use acceptance and help and even truth.

Which is why I am telling you my truth today. I was a teen mom, and in many ways, I still am. I am tired of misleading you to avoid your judgment. I am asking you to please give me a chance based on my merits and not my age.

This post was written in response to Mama Kat’s prompt: List a lie that you consistently tell.