As I sit trying to figure out what my three year old did with his pants, simultaneously I wonder how many of you knew that I even have pairs of 2T and 4T pants to constantly track down. Those pairs of pants represent my boys, the sparkle to each of my eyes, Caleb Michael, 4, and Tyler Zachary, 3. As I sit with fiancé on the couch (after finding Tyler's disappearing pants) I wonder how many of you know where I go when I myself disappear on the weekends... and I think, how many of you, if you did know about my boys and my weekends, would view my reality as something completely other than what is real.
Maybe you don't know because I don't enjoy being judged, and I say that because I know when people judge me, it's always negatively. It's especially hard to deal with peoples glares and prejudice thoughts when I personally love my life and all that is included with it, no regrets and no mistakes. You can think what you want, but I wish you would have the courage to come and ask me first... instead of the eyes burning a hole through me and instead of the racing negative comments, come and ask me about me, before you actually pass a judgment on me.
Having two toddlers isn't everybody's first thought when they think of a freshman girl at Wheaton College, but I ask, Why not? Diversity is pushed down our throats, our school even has a pre-orientation for multi-cultural students, and many colleges, ours included, thrive off of the right to say that X amount of its student body is "diverse." But is the definition of diversity only physical, sexual, and religious diversity? Social class even? Why is it that mothers, husbands, wives, fiancés, widows, widowers - don't seem to "count" in this "broad" definition of diversity? Oh, I get it, maybe because you have to go through college first, get a job first, live life first, before you ever even think about becoming any of those things. I'm sorry, but if what I am doesn't constitute as being a "good representation" of a diverse human being or even a diverse student, then I say screw diversity. I don't want to be a statistic anyway.
Guess what all you haters, scorners, disbelievers, I am part of a statistic, and no... not one of those "don't have sex" program statistics that say X percentage of teenage mothers actually attend school. I am part of the statistic "percentage of college students that don't abuse alcohol or drug." So yeah, I may not be living your or your parents idea of a "real" college experience, but sometimes, I believe that I live a more fulfilling experience than half of the students around me. I may not spend my weekend getting drunk or going to parties, I may not sleep until noon on a Saturday, but my weekend is just, if not more, exciting and fulfilling as yours. I get to spend my weekends watching my boys learn and grow, watching them interact with their father, watching their unconditional love spread to everyone they meet - of course this is between squeezing in homework during nap time. I love my weekends, and NEVER put me in the category of a careless teenager who "screwed up" and has two kids. I didn't screw up, and what came of my actions were worth one hundred times the weight of the initial actions.
So here is my reality. I'm not that teenage mother who messed up. I'm part of the TWO PERCENT of women who had their children under the age of 21 who will get their college degree by the age of thirty - and I actually will graduate with everyone else my age. My reality is that when you look at me with judgment, I smile back and believe that you are thinking how beautiful my boys are and how lucky they are to have two parents that love them beyond belief. My reality is that I'd rather sit at home on a Saturday night playing hide and seek with Caleb and Tyler than drink myself to sickness, and I'd rather look at the pictures Caleb took when he stole me camera for the rest of my life than pictures of a drunken party I would never remember. My reality is THIS is my reality - My fiancé, my boys, my life. Love me or hate me - guess what. It's still me.
And those are my boys... Joey, Caleb, Tyler. And then me, the mommy. Pictures -- courtesy of Caleb.
