The Girl Who Couldn’t Say No:
Memoir of a teenage mom
Tracy Engelbrecht
Copyright 2011 Tracy Engelbrecht
Discover more about Tracy Engelbrecht at http://tracyengelbrecht.com
For Ma
Prologue: I’ll make it quick
This is the story of how I came to tell my parents I was pregnant at not-quite-fifteen years old. It’s also the story of my life since then – how I turned out to be fabulously balanced, a single mother who really loves her life. I also do a mean lasagne. Did I mention the fabulous thing?
It’s not a tragic cautionary tale of a Good Girl Gone Bad or even of Bad Girl Made Good… It’s just a little story of changes and adjustment, of love and destiny. It’s just my story. That should be good enough, I reckon.
Although I’ve always known I would write this (it’s the creative equivalent of the Kellogg’s All Bran Two-Week Challenge – with prunes), I could never find the words (nor the guts) to do so. It’s just all so hard to express without sounding melodramatic and trite, or descending into girlish self-absorption. Heaven forbid the syrupy sort of Barbara Taylor Bradford “triumph against the odds” tale. It was never like that. I’d be lying if I told you it was.
There are lots of things I can tell you. I could tell you what you’d like to hear. I could tell you what you may expect me to say. Or I could tell the truth. The truth, of course, is harder, but it’s the only way. Otherwise, what’s the point? Even now, as I sit stuck on page one, where I have been for the past three months, I am suddenly terrified. Staring at this blank white screen, my palms are sweating and I’m suddenly sure, convinced, that I was wrong. What the hell made me think that I have anything to say? Whatever gave me the idea that there’s anyone out there who gives a stuff?
Deep breath. Sip of coffee. The moment passes. I remember that I don’t hate myself anymore and that this is going to be fun. I think I’ll be okay. We shall see. If you’re reading this, then I did it.
I hope I get it right. For as much as this is my story, it’s mine for only part of the way. After a while, it becomes my children’s story too, and they will have to live it in their own way.
Maybe reading this will help all three of us understand what has brought me to where I am today, and what these past years have meant to me. And maybe this is also for anyone who has ever lived a life like mine, or will do so in the future.
Okay, so I’m also doing it for completely selfish reasons. As together>
But before we get to the juicy details, let me introduce you:
Who am I?
Ah, one of the big questions, subject of thousands of Cosmo articles and any number of dorky self-help books. It’s a question that drives people to do strange and expensive things, like divorcing their spouses after thirty years to live in the Greek Isles with someone named Stavros. Or Candy. Or both. It’s a question that some people pay other people vast sums of money to answer, while other people never even think of asking it.
I’m lucky. I do know. And I’m happy with the answer. Mostly. I mean, obviously, we’re not talking about stretch marks and cellulite and certain obsessive-compulsive personality traits that could use some work. No, no. I’m talking about the me that has been me since the first time I was aware of being me. It took a long time, but I like her these days. You can make up your own mind, but you don’t have to decide right away.
My name is Tracy (aka Mom-can-I? or Mommy-I-wanna!). I’m twenty-seven years old, and I’m a mommy. I’m a conscientious, if rather plodding worker. I’m not scared of snakes or bugs, but I’m very scared of driving. I’d give anyone else my last Rolo, but I’m still lumpier than I’d like to be. And I can write things that other people seem to enjoy. Not much, but it’s a start. And it’s all true, which has to count for something.
I’m no dynamic career woman. I don’t network or do lunch – I work because I have to. My job does not define me, but I try to do it well. There are times I’d love to beat my boss (or myself) senseless with my stapler, but generally work is not unbearable and does not fill me with black dread when I get up in the mornings. It pays the bills (just), and gives me something to obsess over at 2am when I imagine I’ve made some horrendous mistake that will send the company crashing into bankruptcy.
I’m also no super-mom – I just do my best and hope that’s good enough. So far, it seems to have worked. My children are allowed to watch TV and eat sweets and sleep in my bed. Sometimes, all at the same time. They drink Coke and make a noise but they are good people. They’re growing up well – compassionate, insightful, smart and honest. And if getting there involves lots of Barney or Tomb Raider and sticky chocolate handprints on my sheets, that’s okay.
What about my family?
="48">There’s my mother who is my best friend, my sounding board and my (occasional) metaphorical punching bag. We finish each other’s sentences and argue over who has to make the next cup of tea.
My dad is the one who will say yes to anything, even things I haven’t asked him yet. He doesn’t say much, but I know how he feels. He plays golf. He just loves his golf. But being the kind of dad he is, he long ago stopped trying to explain it to me. He once told me that all men are dogs, and I should avoid brandy and Coke drinkers, because they’re all hooligans. Very wise, my dad.
My sister, Emma, is my other best friend – she’s beautiful, poised and braver than anyone else I know. She’s pregnant with her first bean now and you’d think it was my baby, the amount of gratuitous shopping I’ve been doing. She’s going to be a great mom.
Then there are my children, who are my reason for everything. Steven is nearly thirteen (my God, thirteen? Are you sure?). He’s brilliant and gentle, could sell ice to Eskimos and can quote more Terry Pratchett at you than you’d think humanly possible. He’s good at accents and uses words like “droll” in everyday conversation. He is the one who started it all. And he’s special. He’s on his way to great things and I hope the world is ready for him.
My special girl is Maria, five years old and a diva in training. She’s strong and clever and independent. She’s sweet and she’s got attitude. By the bucketload. People melt at one look into those beautiful blue eyes, at that angelic face. She takes no shit from anyone and has already perfected the art of the dramatic exit (disgusted sigh, scowl, flounce, SLAM!). She’s my Lallie, and I wish I could be more like her.
We have a dog named Ruby, who doesn’t listen to anyone and who, I’m sure, needs some sort of doggy-Prozac. I try to remember how much she loves us when she’s licking my bedroom carpet and eating my socks at 3am.
We also have two rabbits that run around the garden eating Froot Loops, grooming the dog and occasionally escaping onto the pavement. Watch in amazement as the whole family runs up and down the road in our pyjamas trying to herd wild-eyed fugitive bunnies back inside. This is done by means of long sticks and lots of shouting and lunging at fresh air. It must be fun to watch.
So that’s us.
And they all lived together in a crooked little house. Well, not crooked, exactly. And it could use a lick of Ty Pennington (but then, who couldn’t? That man is hot.). A different sort of family, but one that is happier and healthier than any other I know.
So, having said all that, dear reader, here we go. Ready?
Chapter One
1993: In which she tries to explain herself and widdles on her shoe
You’ll have figured out by now that I had my son when I was fifteen years old. Yep, that’s right. I was just a month shy of my fifteenth birthday when I found out I was pregnant. I was in grade nine and I had bee
n – up until then, at least – A Good Girl. Quiet, reserved and painfully shy. No trouble at all to my teachers. Mostly invisible to my classmates. No real trouble to my family, although fourteen was a bad year for Mom and me. I’m sorry, Ma. I really am. I was difficult and obnoxious and sneered a lot. Much time was spent being what my mother called “awkward” and “otherwise”.
I remember a look in her eyes when we fought, which I took to be anger and dislike of me. Now, as a mother myself, I realise it was a look of utter panic. Terror and dread of all that can go wrong – and you just know it will be your fault, because you’re completely clueless. It was a look of “Fuckfuckfuck! She’s not doing what she’s supposed to. I’m messing up. What do I do now? Will someone please tell me what the hell I’m supposed to be doing?” Hanging on to your composure by a very frayed thread indeed, because everyone knows children can smell fear. If you let go for even one second, if your paper-thin veneer of Motherly Authority slips just an inch – they’ll be on to you like a pack of hyenas. Gratuitous National Geographic feeding frenzy scenes will ensue. Especially daughters. Daughters are good at spotting the cracks and are handy with a crowbar.
I’m familiar with this look from the inside these days. I feel it in my own eyes sometimes, and I know it’s only going to get worse. A sense of humour helps a lot. Once again, sorry, dear Ma. As penance, I promise to look after you in your old age. Bring on the bedpans – I deserve it.
There are people who think they have the whole “tragic teenage pregnancy” thing figured out. They don’t. They don’t know squat, in fact, unless they’ve been there themselves.
So, what can I tell you? That my childhood was traumatic? That it’s all my parents’ fault? That they didn’t love me enough? Or loved me too much? That I was a wicked, wanton harlot throwing myself at anyone who’d have me? That I was an ignorant and naïve child, led astray by a bad older boy?
Sounds good, sounds like what you’d expect. Pick any of the above scenarios – we all have the makings of a juicy Virginia Andrews novel in there. Except, none of it’s true. Sorry folks. It just wasn’t like that. All the stupid things I did, all the typical teenage shit, wes age shire just a cunning disguise. Underneath it all I really was a Good Girl.
I always had glowing reports from my teachers; I did well without really trying very hard. I was definitely not one of the cool girls – but I wasn’t totally nerdy either. Most of my classmates would probably have to think really hard if asked to describe me. I was just sort of nondescript. I was good at schoolwork, sucked at sports and wished that the Afrikaans mondeling had never been invented. In fact, if I never had to speak to anyone at all I’d have been happy. I spent most of my school years in a kind of permanent, whole-body cringe at my own ridiculousness.
I also had an overwhelming sense of waiting. I can clearly remember a time when I was about seven or eight years old. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon after school – that magical time around four o’clock: after homework, before supper – a time you were free to do anything at all, be anyone you wanted. I sat outside and listened to the birds. The air was still, there was no wind; it was quiet enough to hear the sea and the cars on the other side of the valley. There was a smell of “summer’s coming” in the air. I still smell it sometimes these days, and I remember being seven. It was a special sort of day. The kind you remember for the rest of your life. You don’t get many of those days. None of us do. Looking up at the sky, I remember feeling really small (maybe because I was?), and really sad. I remember asking, “Is this it? Is this all there is? Is there something else out there for me?”
Is there something else out there for me? No answer came. Not then. But I believed there had to be. Of course there was. Isn’t there some unique, important destiny waiting for each one of us? I suppose I was impatient. I wanted it now – I prayed and wished and longed for “it”, although I had no idea what “it” was. I spent years trying to find it.
I grew up with an anorexic self-esteem, minus the sparkling personality and self-confidence, if you’ll pardon the generalisation. Needless to say, I didn’t have the slinky figure either. I thought that everyone else in the world belonged to some kind of fabulous secret society that I’d never be allowed to join. I felt as if I was on the edge of everything. Even when I was happy and having what passed for fun in those days of red jeans and Dr Alban, there was always some little part of me watching from the inside, reminding me that this wasn’t real, this wasn’t it.
I looked for it in my friends, in books and in horrible, suicidal poetry. I looked for it where others seemed to have found it – the ones who seemed so cool and mature, the ones who seemed to know. I looked for it where they did – in cigarettes and alcohol, in boys and in obscure, depressing music.
Slowly it dawned on me that those kids who seemed to have it figured out – the ones who had found “it” – were just as lost as me. They didn’t have it, after all. They were just as confused, just as unhappy and just as dense as I was. What they did hat they dve was lots of black clothes, proper Doc Martens and (some of them) expensive drug habits. I figured that out when I got myself the clothes, the boots and the Benson & Hedges, plus any number of over-exaggerated and embellished (in other words, untrue) tales of mysterious older boyfriends (plus a small assortment of real older boyfriends – handy, but not as mysterious), and still the meaning of it all eluded me. At the time, I thought maybe it was because I didn’t have real Doc Martens. Maybe the Truth of the Meaning of Life, Ancient and Arcane Knowledge of the Great Unknowable Universe is handed down only to persons presenting with the correct brand-name footwear. If you turn up wearing Shoe City knock-offs, you don’t get to pass Go and collect Infinite Enlightenment.
I began to suspect that there was nothing more to life, after all. That, yes, this was it, this dull and unimportant little life was all I could hope for. This, and more of the same – conversations about lipstick and boys and clothes – and variations thereof – forever and ever, amen. I was sad. Desperately sad. I was overcome by an enormous black cloud that I believed wouldn’t go away, not ever. The one thing that I’d been holding out for my whole life – the prospect of something better, something more, something just for me – was gone.
I took an overdose of assorted pills one morning at school (God knows why I did it there – must have been the classic cry-for-help thing). I didn’t think about dying, not really. I didn’t think of how my family would feel. I wasn’t thinking of anything much at all; I was too busy feeling. Feeling lost, raw, broken and sad. Having my head that far up my bum probably also made rational thought difficult. Somewhat muffled, you know?
I just wanted something to change. I wanted to turn the corner and come face-to-face with a parade – balloons and colour and a marching band with banners proclaiming, “Yes! You found it, Tracy! This is IT!” What can I say? I was fourteen. Fourteen-year-olds are dumb.
But I recovered quickly. Really quickly. Must have had something to do with the six kelp tablets I took – I mean, how was I to know? No major damage done, except some to my relationship with my mother. She was deeply hurt by what I’d done and very, very angry with me. It took her a while to trust me again – and I think things were healed properly only after Steven was born. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
You probably want to know how I got pregnant. The usual way, as it turns out. What’s to tell? Girl meets boy, much groping ensues and, well, you know how it all ends.
He was older than me and in college. He was a funny guy. He made me laugh. He lifted a little of the heaviness that had overtaken my life. My parents objected to the age difference, but I convinced them that it would be okay, that they could trust us. I thought so, too.
You know what it’s like – you’re on a diet, you think just a tiny bite of chocolate cake will be okay (after all, it’s probably someone’s birthday, somewhere in jusomewhe the world); of course you can stop after one little nibble. You tell yourself you’re in control, you can stop anytime – and
then, suddenly, everything goes black. When they find you, you’re unconscious, face down, drooling into a cake tin with chocolate icing all over your cheeks and your jersey covered in sponge crumbs. The cake is history, of course.
What happened with David and me was something like that. It was awkward, consensual and over quite quickly – which is the best you can hope for at that age, I guess. It was also more or less inevitable. And before you ask, of course I knew better. Of course I knew about contraception – I was not ignorant or misinformed or pressurised. I knew it all.
Yet, at that moment, on the night in question, none of that seemed to matter very much. My usual sensible and responsible personality seemed to have taken herself off on holiday somewhere and the person she left in charge was a “whatever” kind of girl. I distinctly remember thinking this, that night in the dark: Whatever. It was so unlike me, a typical Virgo who usually analyses every situation, weighs up scenarios and consequences before eventually creeping along to a decision. I was a Good Girl, remember?
The Whatever Girl was a very temporary visitor. She buggered off shortly after, reappearing only once or twice since – when I least expected it, kind of like shingles. She didn’t belong in my head and she knew it. She hung around just long enough to get me pregnant. But whether she knew it or not, she saved my life that night. I believe I would not be here today if it weren’t for her. That black cloud would have swallowed me again and I don’t think I would’ve found my way out. I would have given up the search for my one special thing. I would have missed my parade.
But she was there, she did what she was meant to do and, some weeks later, I walked out of the casualty section of False Bay Hospital. And there it was: my parade, with bells on.
I knew I was pregnant even before my period was late, in the way you do. When I was about a week or so late, I decided it was time to get real and find out for sure. I rounded up two of my best friends after school and off we went to the local hospital. The waiting room at Casualty was crowded – lots of sick, wounded, tired people. People far worse off than me, most of them through no fault of their own. Unlike me, the foolish clichéd statistic that I was.
The Girl Who Couldn't Say No: Memoir of a teenage mom Page 1
