I have been raising two kids alone, on my own, for 12 of 17 years. When I first found out I was pregnant, I was living a life as free as they came. And I was 32 years old. Once everyone overcame their surprise at the announcement, I received encouragement and congratulations, along with some of those, “How’s she ever going to raise a kid?”
What those people didn’t realize is that I had asked myself that several times every day. I didn’t know a thing about how to raise a kid. And I damn sure never imagined I’d be doing it alone. I remember at my baby shower, staring down at the breast pump I had asked for in my hands, and realizing that I had no idea how to use it and thinking, “What the hell do I do with this?!?”
Despite my fears and insecurities, I did it. I was ready; ready for everything except the emergency c-section because I would have died without one. But, despite all the stress and fear, I have raised a healthy, smart, and beautiful child. In fact, I’ve raised two healthy, smart, and beautiful children. My girls are 3 years and 4 days apart. I was 35 when I became a mom the second time.
When I was 5 months pregnant then, my doctor told me that the tests showed mental disabilities and, her exact words, “You’re too far along to do anything about that now.”
I remember staring at her, confused, and not quite understanding what she meant. When my brain kicked in, I told her that I didn’t think we were supposed to play God, and I walked out, crying, determined that I would love this child fiercely despite the odds.
For three weeks, while I waited for the appointment with a geneticist in Pittsburgh, I mourned for my child. I would sit and stare off into space, being brought back to earth with the feeling of tears running down my cheeks. I remember feeling guilty, even though I had done nothing wrong. I worried about what people would think, how it had to somehow be my fault. What kind of life would she have? How was I going to do it alone? I knew, long before the geneticist told me that my doctor had read the results wrong and I had a half of one percent chance of my daughter having a disability, that I would always be overprotective of this one, always be second guessing myself about what’s right for her and loving her too much to not let her grow.
The life of being the only parent of two has been a tough one. I’ve worked my ass off to climb out of poverty so these two could actually enjoy the middle-class lifestyle they’ve been raised to believe they belong in. I’ve been on a mission to show them that yeah, it’s rough, but I expect them to match my determination in their lives to create an existence much greater than this for themselves.
This past fall, I came up against my youngest wanting to meet her dad. She has wanted nothing but her dad since about the age of five. COVID-19 had been rough for her in every way, especially her mental health. After long discussions, we headed 14 hours south to become reacquainted with the guy we hadn’t heard from for 6 years. They’ve remained in very close contact. He rented an apartment here and makes monthly visits. She spent a month there in the summer. And she is so happy to have him in her life.
So happy, in fact, that she has decided that she wants to go and live with him. The truth is, I knew last November that it would happen as soon as she gut-wrenchingly sobbed, “I just want my dad” as we were backing out of his driveway. I remember staring at her, confused, and not quite sure what she meant, but I put the car in “Drive” and pulled back in, telling her to tell him that.
We’re going to try this out for a while, for the rest of the school semester anyway. Monthly visits and holidays.
This week, I would sit and stare off into space, being brought back to earth with the feeling of tears running down my cheeks. I feel guilty, even though I have done nothing wrong. I feel heartbroken and scared and angry. Because I have always been overprotective of this one, have always second guessed myself about what’s right for her, and love her too much to not let her grow.
I’m a little wobbly right now, y’all. Hopefully, publishing this will answer questions not yet asked. Whoever said love doesn’t hurt has never been a mama.
Honestly,
Amy Jo
