What I want to be when I grow up

A couple of years ago, on a trip to Georgia to visit my family and buy a car, I met my first real, live mother in crisis. She was seventeen and afraid she might be pregnant. We hit it off, and started talking a lot. I took her to the local crisis pregnancy center for a test, and eight short months later, my beautiful god-daughter was born.

And that, I suppose, is when I knew how much I love pregnant women. How much the scared ones need to be empowered to finish school and have fulfilling lives, whether they decide to parent their children or not.

I wondered what I could do to help, and thought briefly of volunteering with the pregnancy center, but then I came home and got on with my life. I spent hat summer having a couple of surgical procedures and a bit of a rainstorm (Katrina, anyone?). After the hurricane, my dad offered to come to Mississippi and pick me up so I didn't have to stay in the shelter. I refused every time he asked. Why? Staying here, I was able to actively help families that were impacted by the storm. There, all I would be able to do was watch the news and cry.

No, I didn't go out and rescue anyone or build anything. But I felt that what little I did was equally useful. I worked with the mothers and their young children. I babysat, I changed diapers, I gave bottles, I took the kids outside to play, and I gave the moms a chance to deal with their problems. And when I could, I gave the moms a shoulder to cry on too. I wondered if I could do more, but I ended up going to Georgia to have my "big" surgery.

A few months after the surgery, I found myself in a crisis pregnancy situation. And it's one I hadn't even thought of before, but now I realize that it happens every day, and to way too many women.

I was 25 years old, and pregnant with a child that I wanted more than I could ever say. I knew I wanted children. I've always wanted children. BUT NOT NOW! I was, and am still, uneducated and unmarried. The timing was horrible. The relationship was horrible. I was terrified.

I didn't know how I was even going to tell anyone. I will never forget what James said to me when I first told him. "Okay, did you still want to go for a walk?" I was shocked. I really actually expected him to be upset. But he handled it surprisingly well -- for a little bit. Then he asked me what I wanted to do.

What did he MEAN? Abortion was never an option for me. Not now. This was my child, and I loved him already. And adoption? No....

Please don't misunderstand me. I am a big fan of adoption. Really. A huge one. I am adopted myself, and I really do believe that adoption is the right answer for many women in crisis. It can be a wonderful thing. And if I were 15 or 16, it would have been the right thing for me. But I wasn't. I was 25, working, and still with the same man after five years. We could do this, couldn't we? THIS WAS MY CHILD, AND I LOVED HIM ALREADY!

And then he started. He offered to pay for an abortion. He told me that I wouldn't like being a single mother. He kept pushing and didn't want to talk about any other alternatives. And me? I wasn't willing to talk about THAT issue. I was so scared, and I felt so alone.

That was about when I called The Nurturing Network (and their signature green font that drives me crazy...) for some support.

And I still had to figure out how to tell my family.

But let's not get to that yet. You see, I had JUST had that surgery, and I was NOT supposed to get pregnant for AT LEAST a year (preferably 18 months or longer) because of the enormous risk of uterine rupture, miscarriage, and other very bad things. And I was afraid of what my parents would say when I told them, so I just put it off until we were out of the biggest danger zone: The Miscarriage Zone.

I went for the anatomy scan on a Monday in July. It's a BOY. A BOY! My SON! He waved at me and played for me. My God, he was so perfect! I loved him so much. I took the pictures to WalMart and had copies made for James. You see, I wanted him to understand part of what I was feeling at least. So I found him a picture frame and a gift bag, and I put everything together for him.

He was working late all week, and I was exhausted from overnight babysitting, so I didn't get to give him his present. But we had plans for Saturday, and since I was not going to have to babysit ALL night that night, I was looking forward to it.

And then I came home.
And I couldn't get in.
Because there was another woman there.

And the next day, I went into labor for the first time. That was hell. Seriously. The on-call obstetrician was convinced that this was IT. He was so convinced that, even before he gave me the shot to mature Jack's lungs and the shot to hopefully stop the labor, he had called Life Flight to take me to Emory University Hospital in Atlanta, for their NICU, because nobody on the Coast has the technology to handle a micropreemie.

That night was awful. I was alone, in the hospital, in preterm labor. Nobody was with me. James wouldn't come, and nobody else even knew.

Long story short, we got the labor stopped and I was put on bedrest. Not such a huge lifestyle change, since my pelvis separated at nine weeks, and I could barely walk by this point anyway.

But bedrest isn't exactly easy when there's nobody there to help you. James was always off with this new girl (who did not know I was pregnant, by the way), and I had to shop, cook, and clean for myself.

I finally told my parents some time in August. And their reaction? Not good at all. Neither one would accept that I had already made up my mind to raise him. My father talked to me at length about why I shouldn't. I know he was trying to help, but that really hurt. My mother? She told me I had "no right to do that to an innocent child."

I felt even more alone.

James didn't tell his family until the day before our son was born.

So I spent my pregnancy alone and afraid. Everyone came around when he was born. James decided to get involved when I was in labor at term (okay, postdates!), and my parents love Jack now, though I am sure they still think I made the wrong choice for him. The thing is, I DON'T.

This year has been incredibly difficult, but it has been incredibly amazing. I start school in three weeks, and I am majoring in human services management. I will have my associate's degree in about 15 months, and then I am going to get my bachelor's in social work. Eventually, I will get a master's, too.

What do I want to be when I grow up? Well, I want to change the world. No, really. I don't expect to change the whole world, but it would be nice. I want to open a home for women who are where I have been. I want to provide them with a safe and loving environment -- somewhere where they can have their babies, continue their educations, and get useful life and parenting skills. I want to give women what nobody gave me - the ability to enjoy pregnancy, birth, and the first year or so of their children's lives.

THAT'S what I want to be when I grow up. That, and the best mother I can be.