I can feel it in my tummy. He’s not big enough to move or kick to where I can physically feel him. He’s still tiny, really only a month old, but he’s there and my body knows. I know.
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He’s a boy, just like his Daddy—hopefully not just like his Daddy. I never thought my junior year of high school would end on news like this. I knew it was a possibility, but I didn’t know it was a possibility. Sounds strange right? What I mean is I never knew of any girls who had ever gotten pregnant. I didn’t think I could actually. Something inside me wouldn’t allow me to believe it. I didn’t think it was reality. But, and there is always this but, I did know it could happen. I watch Teen Mom religiously. It’s on every week, and when it’s not a new episode it seems like they are always playing a marathon of reruns. Everyone I know watches it. Then we laugh at those girls, sometimes we cry if we like them, but mostly we just laugh. Now, I’m one of those girls.
Bobby. I always call him Bobby, even now. This last year he decided he would only go by Bob or Robert. It was more adult. You would think wanting to be more adult would actually make him more adult, but no. He’s not. When he changed his name he didn’t tell me. He just wouldn’t respond when I called him Bobby. He ignored me the entire day, as if I were a ghost. Instead, he’d just changed his name and decided that ignoring anyone who called him the name he’d gone by for 16 years was the way to go about telling everyone. I was so pissed that day!
I still call him Bobby, and now he knows better than to ignore me. That was a whole week without sex. For us that’s a lot. It took only two days before he was begging me for it. I wonder if he’ll go back to ignoring me. There’s no sex for him, and I’m not interested. Ever since I found out I was pregnant I haven’t been interested.
It’s still too early to know the details of the baby. Is it a boy, or is that just my motherly intuition kicking in early? Is he going to be “normal?” Will he survive? Those are simple questions you think would be very answerable, but when I snuck into the clinic they couldn’t give me answers. They just said, yep you’re pregnant and I needed to tell my parents.
Bobby was pissed. He was pissed at me? He was the one who insisted on not wearing protection. He couldn’t feel anything. How’s that my fault? Now I have to pay for it.
I haven’t talked to him for three days now—our last fight. All I had asked him was if he was going to stay with me. He looked at me as if I were crazy.
“I dunno,” he said shrugging his shoulders like he always does when he knows the answer but doesn’t want others to know what it is. That in itself doesn’t mean he won’t stay with me or help take care of the baby. It’s his poor excuse at being a boy, and trying to act all cool and mature while really coming off as nothing more than an ass.
I still love him. How does that work? He can be who he is and I will still love him. Regardless if he stays or goes I have a baby, and my parents don’t know.
My Daddy doesn’t know yet, nor does my Mom. I was worried they’d figure it out themselves, especially considering I am the youngest of four. My three older sisters are all grown and out of the house. None have kids yet, which is why I didn’t call them first. They all grew up together, while I was more of a “blessing” my Dad would say. I was very much unexpected. Mom was 42 when I was born. It’s almost funny (or maybe funny ten years from now) that Mom’s unexpected baby at such an old age had an unexpected baby at such a young age. I don’t think either of my parents will laugh or think of it so humorously.
My Dad will be pissed. Not so much at me as he will be at Bobby. To this day none of his daughters can do any wrong. Mom is more critical than him, and will not only look down on me and try to take over every part of my young life from now until my child is a teenager, but will go out of her way to make sure Bobby sticks around. Even if that means dragging him by those funny popped-out ears he has and chaining him to our house like a dog.
Dad could care less if Bobby was around—would probably prefer if he wasn’t.
I made an appointment at the clinic today without telling my parents. I plan on telling them an hour before the appointment, hoping that they will go with me and maybe ease their mind a little. I know I can’t expect the jubilation my parents would have if my sisters Eve or Keri announced they were pregnant (Aubrey is still too young at twenty) but they will be happy eventually. That’s what I have to keep telling myself.
I also keep reaffirming that I will finish school and go to college. I will have a career and take care of my baby. But, when I watch teen mom it never works that way. They all have intentions, but without following through those intentions are merely dreams.
I’m scared. I’m really, really scared of what will happen. I’ve replayed that night a thousand times in my head. He was supposed to pull out. I’ve blamed Bobby. It was his job to do that. He’d done it a thousand times before. It was his job to control it—he didn’t. I blamed him for days. Maybe even now I still blame him, but as the nurse told me, I hadn’t been raped. I was a more than willing participant. We’re both at fault, but I’m the terrified one.
I cry suddenly. It happens a lot. Each time I manage to escape from my parents, and I can feel they are watching me curiously. They know something is up, but they can’t possibly know their sweet virgin daughter is pregnant. That is my secret, one that I must tell them, but want to wait as long as possible. Sadly, I don’t have that long to wait.
I’m crying now. It sucks. I only have an empty box of tissues on my vanity. I sit in my bedroom, the sunlight casting those heavenly kinds of rays through the windows. If I weren’t in my current situation I would sit here and just stare at the light coming in and reflect on how beautiful it was. I would likely write a poem, and store it away in the notebook of poems I keep hidden under my mattress. Writing poetry is only one of dozens of things I do that I wonder if I will keep doing it after I have my baby. Maybe I should start a book of poetry about my baby to give him when he is older. Or, keep it near me always so I remember.
I can hear my parents downstairs. They’re moving around; probably bringing groceries into the house. I’m not sure what to do or how to approach them. I’m so scared now. They are so close to me. I love my parents and I’ve screwed up so bad. I’ve screwed everything up. I just hope they won’t hate me. I don’t think they will, but I just don’t know…
I’m standing when they began to walk up the stairs. I can see their shadows at the space under my door. I can’t stop crying.
My Dad knocks. I can feel the vibration of his thick knuckles rapping on the door as softly as a large man can knock. He’s been a laborer all his life, working overnights and overtime just so his girls can have a life he’d never dreamed of. We grew up an upper-middle class life when our friends grew up middle class. We never wanted for anything. Mom turned the handle to the door, pushed the door open and peaked her head into my room.
“Baby?” She said in her soft voice. She had tears in her eyes when she saw me, but I was a mess. I was crying and my makeup was probably smeared across my face.
“Hi.” I said, barely getting that out. “I have to tell you something.” I said as both of my parents walked into the room.
They didn’t hesitate to come to the bed where I was sitting. They both sat on opposite sides of me. My Dad put his arm around me. My Mom was crying, and then put her arms around my shoulders.
Did they already—
“I got a call from the clinic today.” He said. A tear streamed down his muscular jaw.
He hugged both my Mom and I, his strong protective arms held both his girls.
It wasn’t okay. Nothing I’d done was okay, but at that moment I knew regardless of Bobby’s decision, I wouldn’t be alone.