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Imagine being in middle school, at the age of 12. Imagine being an awkward 12-year-old girl, unable to grasp fitting in, unable to properly fix your unruly curly hair, unable to convey the many multitudes of emotions occurring because of puberty. Imagine the lack of breasts, the lack of a boyfriend, the lack of confidence. And then, imagine your parents, the two dorkiest people in the world, wanting to be involved and present for everything. They suppose the rush of teenage years means an equal rush of rules, of change, of everything. You are 12.
I am the oldest of three children. My sister Anna is 11, in the fifth grade, and my younger sister Rachel is 9, in the third. We had always been a little clique, always together, laughing and getting in trouble. We fought like soldiers and loved like friends, because we were each others. Until that night.

My mother had called us into the kitchen for a family discussion. She taught music at the school we attended and knew all of our teachers personally. We immediately thought this was a disciplinary ordeal. A talk at the dinner table was important whether serious or not. She and my father sat us down and my mother said “We have something to tell you” in an uneasy tone. Rachel shouted it out first, being the 9-year-old she is.

“You’re Pregnant!”

My mother smiled and said yes.

Me and Anna said no. This can’t be.
Shocked is the closest definition of the emotions felt by me and Anna. Rachel was excited. Everything from this point on was to be different. My mother told us not to tell anyone and we agreed. Partly shocked and mortified, we returned to our rooms. Being 12, having only found out about sex a year ago, a child inside of my mother made me feel unexplainable. A child meant my parents had had sex. A child meant my mother and my father had had relations in the bed they slept in, and only slept in. A child meant that my mom and dad still did it after Rachel, the youngest. I was speechless. It was ok for a while, though, because no one would know that the loud and controlling music teacher was with child.

Rachel told.

She told everyone. And the best part is, when she arrived at school the next morning, she ran down the hall telling anyone she met, and finished “My mom’s pregnant” with “but don’t tell anyone” . Thankfully no one did, or it would have been awkward for my mom, when she came down the hall, for everyone to flock to her and say “Is it true?”
How can you blame a 9-year-old for telling everyone?
The most interesting thing about everyone knowing your mom and dad have had sex is to also have to tell them that your mom is 41 years old. The people unsurprised by my parents intercourse, usually the adults that found out, were more surprised by my mothers age. Though 41 is not technically old, for birthing it is. The risks are greater, and my mother had to be especially careful with what she ate and make sure she kept her internal levels up. She had to take iron orally, which made her sick, and her vitamins and such. We had to help. Help with groceries, laundry, fetching things for my mother. For the most part, her pregnancy was smooth sailing, she already had three daughters you know.
And that’s another thing. We at least wanted a boy. A blue clad, ball playing, bearded boy. We begged and begged. A boy would have been fun. My mother went to the doctor.
It was a…
…
girl.
Why, why a girl. We had enough. But no, my father was only capable of producing more estrogen-filled females. Probably best though. Our musically and drama drenched family of five did not need a baby boy to try and make tough. He would have ended up girly.
So we had a girl. I had also turned 13 during this, still awkward, but officially a “teenager”. With a pregnant mom.
The naming became our next issue. A Biblical name was key, since we all had bible names. All was either played out or we knew someone with that name. And one day, driving down the road, I said , “What about Conner? Can that be a girl’s name?”
My mom called my dad.
He loved it.
Conner Elizabeth. How cute and modern and mine. I so named her.
Now, if she would only come out.
It took forever. My mom got moody. My mom got bigger. My mom would eat and sleep. It was annoying.
Then, she felt the real contractions. She went to the hospital in the afternoon, and being prone to Braxton Hicks, the fake contractions, she knew these were real. But unable to get any farther along, they sent her home that evening. She returned to the hospital the next morning at 2 and had my sister at 10 a.m. We were at school. She called and told us, but we couldn’t go until lunch. It was a long two hours.
We arrived with my grandparents at the hospital practically flying up the stairs. She was finally here and we had to see her.

She looked like a pink rat.

A pink rat with hair.
I hoped she didn’t stay like that for long.
I was first to hold her out of us three. She was tiny, unimaginably fragile, ugly, but perfect. She cried clumsily, which is normal I suppose. We weren’t too disappointed in her appearance because my parents assured us she would get pretty. My mom and Conner came home the next day.
We woke up the next morning when she did, watching her every uncoordinated move. Wanting her to wake up, to get to know us, to love us like we loved her.
She got to that point eventually. She is now a loud, fantastic 7-year-old. Her first grade career is good on the scholastic side, but bad on the silent part. She has to talk.
But, she is our youngest, and has a lot to say.
Which is not her fault.

Talking has always been our favorite hobby.

Publication Date: 01-28-2010

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
To Conner