Children Raising Children

"I've worked every day of my life so you kids wouldn't have to worry," my dad told me. Every morning he would get up at four for work. Every morning he would drive to Circle K in his old stick shift--which was ready to fall apart at any moment--and get the same cup of coffee, never sweet. "I don't want you to make the same mistakes I did, like everyone around here did. Everyone lives paycheck to paycheck; it's no way to live." There'd be times he wouldn't eat because he wanted to make sure we had enough, and I wanted to take that weight off his shoulders. This routine has been his life since he was seventeen years old, a routine that barely succeeds. Having a child as a teenager is a weight, one that dramatically alters a teenager's life and makes it much more difficult, as it did with my parents.
My parents had to give up much of their young adult lives, my dad did especially. He had to immediately go out and work, and because of this he became distant from my siblings and I. He'd get up early for work, and sleep whenever he had a moment to rest. Because he was young he still loved drinking with his friends. I remember nights he'd stay up drinking around the fire in my grandma's backyard. The smell of alcohol and smoke still permeates my memories, as well as the sound of oldies playing. He still wanted to remain youthful, he wanted a night off from the responsibilities of parenthood. We never understood each other, and I always assumed that he never cared much for me. Years of watching Disney Channel and Nickelodeon taught me that a father is supposed to be the loving-yet-goofy, proud-yet-approachable man of the house. I never saw these qualities in my father, however. I could see the tiredness in his eyes, the years of carrying that weight beginning to add up. He tried though, and I loved him for it. Eventually, after my mother fell apart, I would learn the importance of his persistence.
My mother is entirely different from my father, so much so that I would be surprised if you told me they were even friends at one point, much less that they dated. My parents were never married, and when they broke up my mom was granted custody of my sister and I. "Your dad always went out with his friends, I had to take care of you by myself," she would tell me as she sipped on her rum-and-coke. That's what eased the weight upon her: alcohol. "I even had to drive myself to the hospital the day you were born", she said. I never knew if these stories were true, but they created a strong distaste for my father. She told me stories about her mother and father, and how they had taught her to ride a horse when she was young. She told me about how she was going to get a Master's degree soon, and that it meant she could get a better job than the one she had. I put faith in my mother, while my dad was just someone to play catch with or visit for the weekend.
When I was 10 I Iost that faith. Her father was diagnosed with liver cancer while she was pregnant with my brother, and she couldn't stand under the weight of both. She ran to her escape and drowned in it. She drank vodka to get through the day, and rum to put herself to sleep. She drank through her pregnancy, and continued to drink after my brother was born. There would be nights she and her boyfriend passed out from the alcohol, and I could hear my brother crying, screaming. I'd drag myself out of bed and make him a bottle so he would fall back to sleep. "3:42" the clock glowed, as though it was mocking me. "Bet you wish you were in bed right about now, huh?", it crowed at me. My mom never did get her Master's degree.
Eventually it got bad enough that we could no longer live with her. The weight was too much for her to bear. My dad received custody of us, and has warned me all my life to never follow in his footsteps. "I don't want you to be stuck here" he always told me, "This town has nothing to offer you." He taught me never to settle, never to let myself falter. He showed me a different kind of love that wasn't featured in children's television, a love that was indirect. Rarely did he explicitly tell us that he loved us, but he would provide for us and push to do our best in every aspect, to be the best individual we could. This is when I learned to love him, when my attitude towards him changed for the better. The reassurance and sense of well-being he provided was the greatest gift I received as a child, and he managed to carry his weight while carrying my own.
One could argue that having a child is equally difficult regardless of age, but this is simply not the case. As seen in my own experiences, teenage parents are not mature enough to handle the responsibilities as effectively as an older individual would. The older individual may also want to settle down and focus their attention on starting a family, as to where the young individual most likely does not want to settle down. The young individual may want to continue without a great deal of responsibility for as long as possible.
Such are the lives of teenage parents, set back without preparation for the world ahead. If they had a few more years to mature they would not have struggled nearly as much. My mom could have gotten her Master's degree, and maybe she would not have resorted to drinking. My dad could have gotten a better job, more years to focus on himself too. Had they not had a child as early as they did they could have improved upon themselves, thereby improving the lives of their children later as life as well. With a child, however, the focus cannot remain upon a young adult's life. One's life is now dedicated to whatever is best for the child at the moment. Although my parents are the focal point of this essay their stories are representative of many other teenage parent's lives. My parents had to grow up very quickly, carrying a weight that proved to be incredibly heavy.