The Girl Who Couldn't Say No: Memoir of a teenage mom

by Tracy Engelbrecht

  Murderous rage is definitely not conducive to relaxed labour. Messes with endorphin production something awful.

  I got through the worst contractions by reciting Harry Potter spells under my breath. W thought I was crazy. I held his hand and squeezed it blue while he gibbered and shook. This wild, out-of-control mad woman scared the bejeebers out of him.

  The spells worked a treat, actually. I reckon ol’ JK should look into the doula business, should her current millions ever run out. My body was working well, all progressing according to plan, and now it was only a case of getting the child out of me. Sounds simple, hmm? I was proud of myself, actually. No pain relief, none of that lovely gas that takes the edge off and makes you higher than… well, really high. It was just me and my child and Mother Nature, doing it together.

  At about 4am, W announced that he was too tired to go on. He was too tired? He who had been sitting on his ass for hours, holding my hand, while I squeezed an object the size of a medium watermelon with sharp pointy fingernails down my fucking birth canal? The lazy, useless TOSSER! Yes, he was exhausted, he told me in all sincerity, like I should understand. It had been a long day. He was going to nap in the car. He said he’d call my mom to stay with me.

  He left. Can you believe it? My heart would have broken again, had it not been for the other bits of me that were busy tearing.

  The day your child is born is supposed to be a joyous occasion. Nobody should have to deal with disappointment and sadness like that.

  I’ve never been so glad to see my mother in my life. I cried when I saw her. At last, here was someone I could rely on. She’d help me. She’d understand. And she did, of course.

  “I need to push!” I yelled at anybody who would listen just minutes after she arrived. Nurse arrived to check me out.

  “Nonsense,” she declared. “It’s not time yet. And stop making such a noise; you’re disturbing the other mothers!”

  Fuck you, bitch.

  She went away. I yelled again.

  “I need to push! Somebody! Please!” Nobody came. I sent my mother out to find somebody wearing a uniform who could catch this baby that was about to come bursting out of me like that Alien thing. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you know when you need to push.

  A couple of nurses moseyed on in, spotted my red, straining face and sprang into action, gloves a-snapping. I pushed beautifully. I felt so aware, so awake and in control. I’ve never felt so alive in my life.

  And then, five minutes after I’d started pushing, I met my daughter. Laughter bubbled out of me as I gave that last push and someone called “Hello baby!” There is no other such feeling in the world. I felt so honoured. I sat up and picked my baby off the bed, still attached to the placenta inside me, and I felt in the presence of something else again. I don’t know what that something is, but I’m truly grateful for it.

  She was a perfect little girl – strong, healthy and beautiful. She was Maria, which means dark in Arabic. Her skin was rosy and she had dark hair and long pianist’s fingers. I get all teary eyed when I remember seeing her for the first time.

  Steven had a sister. I was a mommy of two – very different to a mommy of one, which might be termed a fluke. Mommy of two is the real deal.

  My mother left immediately to fetch W. I was sorry that he’d missed it, but happy that my mother had been there to witness the birth. She still marvels about it today – how she saw Maria’s little hand come into the world first. Some things are so special they just cannot be adequately described.

  I started breastfeeding straight away. Quite an experience having your nipples manhandled by strangers. The nurses (even the bitchy one who’d told me to shut up) helped a lot, and encouraged me to persevere. Breastfeeding is the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done as a mother.

  Two hours later, I was up and about, showering and feeling human again – none of the fainting drama I’d had with Steven. I was as strong as an ox and knew what I was doing. The nurses left me alone to do my own thing with Maria.

  This time, at twenty-three, I was the oldest mother on the ward – a maternity ward veteran. The other girls were about sixteen or seventeen. It felt strange watching them with their babies. There was so much I wanted to say to them. And yet, I knew they wouldn’t want to hear it. They seemed uninterested in their babies, so detached from the miracle they’d just experienced. They spoke about partying and friends and drugs. They left their crying babies for ages, while they wandered around the ward, leaving me to look after Maria and three others. They weren’t ready to be mothers, and their children were probably destined to live their mother’s lives over again. Watching them, I understood what everybody feared for me. It was sad to see. I wonder where they are today. I wish I could it fix it for them.

  ***

  We left the hospital the next day, all the unpleasantness, guilt and drama of bringing another baby into my parents’ house dissipated. There was only Maria and Steven – and our time together. We were a family of three, now. Steven took to his sister immediately and, even at seven years old, was a huge help. He was, and is, an excellent big brother. I’m so proud of him.

  The four months at home with Maria were sheer bliss. She was an easygoing baby who slept a lot. When she wasn’t sleeping, she was attached to the boob. I loved every minute of being at home with my children, and dreaded the day I’d have to find another job. That day came, though, as inevitable as the taxman.

  Now I had to leave my two darlings at home every day to travel by train for an hour to a crummy job with, honestly, the craziest woman you could ever hope to meet in your life. All my previous bosses paled by comparison. I’m terrified she’ll read this and sue me, so I will say no more. Except that she should have installed a revolving door in her building, the staff turnover was so mind boggling. I lasted six months before I threw in the towel. Which were five-and–a-half months longer than anybody else before me.

  Six months of expressing breast milk every lunch break (can I hear you say Moo?), then racing home after work to catch Maria before she fell asleep to give her evening feed, spending two hours with Steven before he went to bed, squeezing in homework, supper, bath time, qevebath tiuality time, randomised nagging. Six months of stress, anxiety and exhaustion. I was trying hard to find that miraculous balance all those smug working mothers brag about. Balance? As far as I’m concerned, balance is for skinny, double-jointed women wearing spangled leggings. Do you see any bloody spangled leggings here? I think not.

  Chapter Eleven

  In which she reveals her secret identity: Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I give you The Girl Who Couldn’t Say No

  It was a narrow escape from the World’s Looniest Redhead. She was a cross between Bree Vanderkamp, Eva Braun and Dolly Parton coming off Prozac. Those prodigious jugs made my eyes water. I can’t imagine what they did to her posture.

  My two-week notice period dragged on and on. Many a time I was tempted to just get up and walk away, especially when she launched into the “You–Ungrateful-Bitch-After-All-I’ve-Done-For-You” speech, or any of a number of creative variations on the theme, “I Was About To Fire You, Anyway” and “You’ll Never Amount To Anything” being just two of them.

  I couldn’t bring myself to storm out, though I’d planned my dramatic exit perfectly – a stirring monologue, with a few scathing close-to-the-bone insults thrown in for good measure. But as you know, I’m a gutless wimp. I didn’t do any of those brave, satisfying things. Instead I gritted my teeth, swore a lot in my head and stopped eating. Great for losing post-pregnancy fat, terrible for mental health. Walking out of a job before the agreed time was something Sensible Tracy and her cronies just wouldn’t allow. Only irresponsible people did that sort of thing and, God knows, I had enough black marks against my name already. In a sick, masochistic kind of way, I was proud of myself for sticking it out as long as I did. How wretched is that? I’m telling you, people, it was a madhouse. It was like A Clockwork Orange, and I’m not ta
lking about her hair.

  I moved on to a pleasant new job with a small company that did obscure Internetty sorts of things, impossible to explain to random wrong-number callers. This was my first “good job” that wasn’t a dead-ender with no prospects.

  And what a difference it made to my life. I put on six kilograms (thanks to Engen QuickShop… choccie brownies, mmm…) and was longer chronically dehydrated due to Crazy Lady’s “No-Drinking-At-Your-Desk” rule. No paranoid delusionals, no religious freaks and zero shagging prospects to distract me from the task at hand. Peace and quiet; a real job, at last.

  Just me in my office, nobody to bother me, spewing out Excel spreadsheets until my little heart burst. It was wonderful. For the first time ever I was happy at work. I was good at what I did and I was learning new skills. And, oh happy day, I could walk around barefoot in the office and nobody cared. As much as I like looking at fancy, professional-looking strappy heels, the fuckers are a bastard to wear. Gimme my Tigger socks, any day.

  There were no rules for eating, drinking or toilet usage, no conspiracy theories and no bipolar cases. (That I knew of, anyway.) Unlimited Internet access (woo hoo!) and sympathy for my parental responsibilities made it a very cool place to work. Regular hours (I was out of the door and on the pavement by 16h27 every day) meant I was always home in time to do the required Mommy Things with the children.

  Of course, I had plenty of help from my family, especially Mom. But I tried very hard (and still do) not to take advantage of that, with varying degrees of success. I’d had it pretty easy, all things considered, so making life harder for myself seemed the logical thing to do. I’ve been known to jump out of bed in the middle of the night and run around the house picking up toys in my sleep, just in case Mom woke up and noticed something out of place. I’d have two school lunches made and one uniform ironed before I woke up. It’s a special talent, but doesn’t make for restful nights. No wonder I look like shite half the time.

  Mom looked after the children while I worked, so I managed to avoid sending them to aftercare. That suited me, since it was a saving and I knew my children were happy in their own home with their granny who loved them and who wouldn’t force them to eat beetroot under pain of death, as had happened to poor Steven during his heart-warming days at the Preschool of Hell. That terrible place probably contributed massively to Mom’s hatred of the idea of aftercare. I think she believes children in aftercare are used as cheap labour to make Levi’s or soccer balls. And there you were blaming Malaysia. Tsk tsk.

  Mom is a different sort of granny – not the knitting, baking, shawl-wearing type. She prefers Tomb Raider and sword fights and building her own steps. She doesn’t cook if she can help it and I’ve never known her to embroider anything.

  The two of us are very different, yet in some ways so similar it’s frightening. Two grown women in one house is a daunting business, and I feel sorry for my dad sometimes. He usually tries not to take sides when we fight. Dad is the Switzerland of the Engelbrecht family, preferring to mediate, while calmly and rationally considering both sides of whatever battle is being waged. This sensible, mature approach usually earns him withering scorn from both sides. Then, in the face of our combined derision, he’d scuttle back to his couch, a beaten man, leaving us to our Mexican stand-off over the correct way to iron a shirt.

  We make things complicated for ourselves, Mom and me. Still, I owe her a lot, and I will always be grateful for the peace of mind she has given me, and the years of her life she has givot, she haen my children. Thanks Ma.

  In the early days at my new job, stress that I’d been living with ever since my relationship with W just melted away. My hair, which had been falling out in clumps thanks to Crazy Lady, began to grow back. The regrowth was all patchy and weird, but an improvement on the bald spots, so who am I to complain?

  It felt as if things were coming together for me, at last. I felt like a real grown-up. I thought I could go far. I thought that in two or three years I’d be able to afford my own house, a car – a proper life, in general.

  Nearly five years later, I’m still sitting on the same chair (worn a bit under my left bum cheek), drinking the same coffee and stretching the same budget as I was back then. Gimme an R!! Gimme a U!! Gimme a T!! Whaddaya get? Comfort zone is the term, I believe. Or maybe it’s Lazy Arsehole. What do you think? Voting lines now open.

  As far as W was concerned – we were officially Not Together And What A Lucky Escape. We’d both moved on nicely, and with some relief. The resentment and negativity of our last few months together had given way to a kind of guarded politeness. We weren’t friends, but we’d resolved to be good co-parents to Maria. Or rather, I had resolved, and he’d tried to do as I told him. Things were rocky at first. We fought a lot in the first year, as he found his feet and learnt how to be a dad, and an adult, I suppose. Money, reliability, and priorities were the usual suspects. I still believed I could bully him into behaving. He had the parenting instincts of a chest of drawers at first, I’m sorry to say, and was still so self-absorbed that each time he opened his mouth, he risked disappearing up his own bum.

  Maria scared W. He was tense and wooden, entirely unable to cope when she cried or didn’t want to go to him. He must have dreaded his visits, sometimes. Not only did he have to be responsible for this terrifying, helpless child who couldn’t explain what she needed, he also had to contend with the Bitch Ex-Girlfriend (um, that would be me) watching his every move and complaining bitterly when he stuffed up. Maybe all new dads (especially single ones) go through this. I was just terrified that he’d end up being another David.

  Thankfully, things have improved over the years. Time, experience and love for his child kicked in and sorted him out good and proper. Thank God – otherwise I’d probably have thrown myself off a building – or him, on second thought. W has become the dad I always suspected he could be and Maria loves him. They bake Barbie cup cakes, his girlfriend calls her Pretty Girl and plays with her hair. They’re doing fine. I’m proud of him for not being so furniture-like anymore. It can only get better, although I do wonder how he’s going to manage her teenage years. Egad. She’s going to cringe a lot, I bet. Poor child.

  On the subject of fathers, I bet you want to know what happened to David. Honestly, for seven years or so, nothing. He was completely out of the picture, as though he didn’t exist. That suited me just fine, in my more selfish e wore selmoments. But I worried about the effect it had on Steven. He never spoke about David. Occasionally, I spoke to him about his dad, and asked him how he felt about it. Didn’t he miss him? Didn’t he wonder about him? Didn’t he wish he had a dad like everybody else? Steven always said he was Fine. He was trying to spare my feelings, even at five, six and seven years old. I’m sorry. He’s had way too much to deal with than seems fair.

  Then one day, when he was about nine years old, during one of my random probing sessions, I asked if he’d like to make contact. He said yes. I was surprised, and nervous as hell. After making some enquiries through his ex-girlfriend, his mother phoned and gave me his e-mail address.

  I didn’t know how to react at all. I wasn’t doing this for me – I was still angry with him, but couldn’t allow my feelings to cloud my judgement about what was best for Steven.

  When I wrote to him, my first question was, why. Why didn’t he fight for his son all those years ago? Why didn’t he come looking for him? Why didn’t he try harder? Why did he find it so easy to just walk away?

  I wasn’t emotional. I wasn’t rude. I just needed those questions answered before I could decide whether Steven would be safe pursuing a relationship with his father. He did answer me, in a way. He admitted he was wrong. He admitted to being immature and lazy and not knowing how to handle the situation. He wasn’t defensive or angry, which deflated me a bit, actually. I expected a fight, but it never came.

  We chatted via e-mail for weeks, me asking the hard questions. David didn’t say too much. What can you say, really? Eventually, we tent
atively decided that they would start corresponding via e-mail, just to see how things went. No pressure. I made David promise on his life that this is what he wanted to do. I questioned him long and hard about his motives and made it clear that he should not start something he had no intention of following through. I told him I would not let Steven be hurt again, and if he wanted to walk away again, this was his last chance to do so.

  He hasn’t. They’ve been in touch for nearly four years now. They e-mail, they speak on the phone. David sends presents for Christmas and birthdays. Steven even spends time with David’s mother occasionally.

  Steven and David met face to face for the first time a few months after making contact. They hadn’t seen each other since before Steven turned two. What an emotional day. They met at my office and I left them alone while to chat. Steven was shy and awkward, but underneath all that, I know he was happy to be with his dad, at last. That scares me, because I can see how much he wants to have his father in his life, and I don’t know how it’s going to turn out.

  It’s been a huge leap of faith – I have to have faith in David, which is hard enough, given the past. But I also have to have faith in Steven – faith that hefaiaith th knows what he wants and that he can handle it, whatever the outcome. That’s a lot for a boy of not-quite-thirteen. My nerves are shot.

  So far, so good. It’s not a regular father-son relationship, and it’s doubtful it ever will be. But it’s more than they’d had before, and that’s good, at least. Whatever one can call it – friends or buddies or family – the two of them will have to define it for themselves, somehow. I’m sure Steven wishes for more and that breaks my heart.

  He’s brave, my boy. I love him so. He’s turned out splendidly – even with a teenage mother who couldn’t say no.

  I think I’m supposed to say that I spent the next five years expertly juggling motherhood, career and personal fulfilment. I think I’m meant to be some sort of shiny example of dynamic, sexy, 21st century momminess. Are you waiting to hear that I have it all, and you can, too? Tee-hee. I could tell you that, of course, except I’d be lying through my teeth, and we all know it.