Originally published on Everyday Feminism.
The first time I met my daughter’s fourth grade teacher I said, “Hi, I am Atlantis’ mum.”
She said, “You are Atlantis’ mum! I thought you were a high school student!”
I laughed unnecessarily loud and sat down. What was I going to do? Tell her no? I’d rather her think I gave birth at eight. Makes for an interesting parent-teacher conference.
I have heard all sorts of things: “You are a mother!” “How old are you!” “You look like a teenager!” “What, did you have her when you were ten?!” “I thought you two were sisters!” “I thought you were her babysitter.”
Yes, I am young mother. I am thirty, and Atlantis is eleven. Which means I gave birth at 19.
In my early twenties, I felt like I had to guide people through the shock of finding out I was such a young mother. I felt an obligation to explain when I gave birth, where her father was, how long I had been a parent, how long I was in labour, and how long I breastfed. I had to make sure they were okay with it. I had to prove myself as a mother.
I finally realized it wasn’t my responsibility to help people when they learned the world didn’t look quite as they imagined. I was at a company party and I was talking to a doc filmmaker. I said something like, “Oh, my daughter loves…” and a woman I wasn’t even talking to interjected, “You are a mother! How old are you?!”