Growing up before our time



1994

On November 25, 1994, at 7:56 p.m., I gave birth to a beautiful, perfect baby boy. He weighed 7 lbs., 9.5 oz and was 20.5 inches long.

I was seventeen years old. I was still in high school, but that didn’t matter; I thought I knew everything I needed to know to be a parent. After all, I’d taken Parenting and Child Development, passing both with at least a C.

We lived with my mom and younger sister for the first several years while I attended community college and worked dead-end jobs. My son always had food to eat and clothes to wear; what more did he need? I loved him, bought him toys, took him to the zoo. I did what I saw parents do. Parents who waited until they were finished with college, married, and mature enough to have a child. I took him to church even though I knew little about God myself.

2001

My son grew as children tend to do. He was full of innocence and a child’s spirit; a toothy grin underlined his bright blue eyes. He became more independent; informing me he could do it himself. He dreamed of working at McDonalds where he would make the fries along with his pal Michael Jordan. He tried some sports, loving them when he was a little boy. But as his legs grew longer and his head bigger, he found skateboards and video games and drawing more entertaining than balls and bats.

Sometimes his grades were stellar, sometimes they were not. I encouraged, or so I thought I did. He’d call it nagging. Still, he was my boy, and the tree of love in my heart that sprouted the day after Thanksgiving in 1994 would continue to grow for him.  Ups and downs and down and outs, he was always my number one. My first baby.

D and C 2004

In 2001, I gave him a sister. He didn’t ask for her. Or the brother he got in 2004 or the other sister in 2009. He didn’t ask for much, really, anymore. Just to be left alone.



D and J 2012

In the summer of 2008, he visited his dad in Oregon and asked to stay. I agreed reluctantly, not ready to let my baby go. Worried of what his future would be so far away from me. What if he needed me? What could I do 2,070 miles away?

Things were fine at first, or at least that’s what I’m told. No matter how it exactly went down, my baby boy learned to be an adult before his time, much as I did eighteen years ago. I begged and bribed and pleaded for him to come home, but he now calls Oregon home. It breaks my heart.

D and L 2009

But my son? He has grown so much, taller than me and very handsome if I do say so myself. He is intelligent, has excellent morals, a good work ethic and a plan. He’s eighteen today, working two jobs while finishing his senior year in high school.

Me and D 2009

Not a day goes by that I don’t miss him and wish I could hug him. I wish I could make his life easier, less stress, less strife. I worry worry worry like any mom would do.

He’s 18 today. Old enough to vote. Old enough to join the military. Old enough to be considered an adult.  None of that matters. He’ll always be my baby. Happy Birthday, D-machine!  

2012