I accidentally got pregnant when I was 16 years old; my daughter was born just two weeks after my seventeenth birthday. Like most mothers my age, I had no idea what was in store for me. But going against the stereotype, I finished high school. While my little girl went to pre-school, I went to college and worked full-time. We grew into womenhood together. There isn’t an experience I’ve had in the last 21 years to which she wasn’t an integral part.
This past Friday, on the first day of spring, bookended by a freaky snowstorm and a lunar eclipse that hasn’t occurred since she was two, my daughter got married to the love of her life – my grandson’s father. The day was all about them, as it should be, but I couldn’t help remembering, as she floated across the ballroom floor as someone’s wife, dancing around my bedroom to Madonna with her nestled in the crook of my arm.
And I cried tears of joy and pride for the beautiful woman before me. Sure – she wouldn’t be here if not for me, but I wouldn’t be the woman I am if not for her.