Tracy Engelbrecht - The Girl Who Couldnt Say No: Memoir of a Teenage Mom

The Girl Who Couldnt 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: Ill make it quick

This is the story of how I came to tell my parents I was pregnant at not-quite-fifteen years old. Its 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?

Its not a tragic cautionary tale of a Good Girl Gone Bad or even of Bad Girl Made Good Its just a little story of changes and adjustment, of love and destiny. Its just my story. That should be good enough, I reckon.

Although Ive always known I would write this (its the creative equivalent of the Kelloggs All Bran Two-Week Challenge with prunes), I could never find the words (nor the guts) to do so. Its 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. Id be lying if I told you it was.

There are lots of things I can tell you. I could tell you what youd 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 its the only way. Otherwise, whats 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 Im 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 theres anyone out there who gives a stuff?

Deep breath. Sip of coffee. The moment passes. I remember that I dont hate myself anymore and that this is going to be fun. I think Ill be okay. We shall see. If youre reading this, then I did it.

I hope I get it right. For as much as this is my story, its mine for only part of the way. After a while, it becomes my childrens 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 Im 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. Its 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. Its a question that some people pay other people vast sums of money to answer, while other people never even think of asking it.

Im lucky. I do know.And Im happy with the answer. Mostly. I mean, obviously, were not talking about stretch marks and cellulite and certain obsessive-compulsive personality traits that could use some work. No, no. Im 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 dont have to decide right away.

My name is Tracy (aka Mom-can-I? or Mommy-I-wanna!). Im twenty-seven years old, and Im a mommy. Im a conscientious, if rather plodding worker. Im not scared of snakes or bugs, but Im very scared of driving. Id give anyone else my last Rolo, but Im still lumpier than Id like to be. And I can write things that other people seem to enjoy. Not much, but its a start. And its all true, which has to count for something.

Im no dynamic career woman. I dont 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 Id 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 Ive made some horrendous mistake that will send the company crashing into bankruptcy.

Im also no super-mom I just do my best and hope thats 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. Theyre 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, thats okay.

What about my family?

="48">Theres my mother who is my best friend, my sounding board and my (occasional) metaphorical punching bag. We finish each others 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 havent asked him yet. He doesnt 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 theyre all hooligans. Very wise, my dad.

My sister, Emma, is my other best friend shes beautiful, poised and braver than anyone else I know. Shes pregnant with her first bean now and youd think it was my baby, the amount of gratuitous shopping Ive been doing. Shes 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?). Hes brilliant and gentle, could sell ice to Eskimos and can quote more Terry Pratchett at you than youd think humanly possible. Hes good at accents and uses words like droll in everyday conversation. He is the one who started it all. And hes special. Hes 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. Shes strong and clever and independent. Shes sweet and shes 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!). Shes my Lallie, and I wish I could be more like her.

We have a dog named Ruby, who doesnt listen to anyone and who, Im sure, needs some sort of doggy-Prozac. I try to remember how much she loves us when shes 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 thats 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 couldnt? 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

Youll have figured out by now that I had my son when I was fifteen years old. Yep, thats 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 been 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. Im 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.