By Stacey Aaronson
While I was growing up in the 1970s, my little red Samsonite saw its fair share of use—weekends with my dad, moving with my mom to northern California in the third grade, flying back down to southern California every month for family visits, extended stays with my grandparents, the list goes on. Yet, bouncing between my mom, dad, and grandparents—despite what most people imagine—carried its own brand of ideal. Enveloped in the boundless love of all three, I got to grow up in three distinct environments, each with its own particular magic.
From the outside, having teenage parents who were forced to marry, then divorced before I was one, tends to conjure a fault line zig-zagging across the foundation of my childhood. It certainly doesn’t fit most people’s image of “ideal,” and for some kids, it might not be. Or is it merely perspective that edges a person to one side or the other of the fine line that delineates a fortifying vs. dispiriting upbringing?
I recently received a moving note from a reader of my memoir, Raising, and Losing, My Remarkable Teenage Mother, telling me she was born close to the year I was and that her father claimed including her (the only child) in family decisions and treating her as an adult was “the way things were done then.” She had grown up believing this philosophy was merely her parents’ excuse for abdicating their parental responsibilities. But, after reading my book, she saw her childhood in a bit of a different light.
This is precisely the type of reflection I hoped telling my story would evoke in others, and it admittedly touched my heart.
Like most of us, in the midst of my growing-up years, I wasn’t consciously thinking about how my unconventional childhood was working its magic on me. It was simply my life. Though it contrasted with some of my friends’ intact families and select TV clans, I intuitively knew that I had something unique in the bubble of equality I resided in. While I did weather a few storms with my young mom as she sought love and her own path, and it’s true that a lot of factors are involved in how a child turns out because of, or in spite of, the environments into which they are born, there is no doubt that I had some of the greatest factors in my favor.
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For one, I never knew my parents as a married couple, so I never had to lament them breaking up. I also recognized from a very early age that my parents were not a couple of material because they were so different. They were amicable for the most part, and it certainly helped that my dad held up his responsibilities as a father and then some, but I could just tell that the two of them didn’t belong together. That was fine with me, though. In place of having two unhappy parents as a duo, I had a life with each one separately that had its own special flavor. On top of that, I had a wonderful life with my grandparents that had its own flavor too.
To give you an abbreviated glimpse:
The world of my mom was unstructured, free-spirited, playful, mischievous, silly, irreverent, and full of music.
The world of my dad was structured, responsible, practical, fun, and filled with educational activities, sports, and games of all kinds.
The world of my grandparents was stability, manners, appreciation of fine things, comfort foods, soap operas, and game shows.
As you can imagine, each of these environments influenced me in its own significant way, and I treasured my time in all of them. But there were also some things that crossed over all three that truly shaped the person I became.
Without exception:
I was adored.
I was respected.
I was listened to.
I was given a voice.
I was valued.
I was treated with dignity.
I was showered with affection.
I was encouraged in my gifts and passions.
I was provided generously.
I was accepted as exactly who I was.
I was loved unconditionally.
And, despite the circumstances, I was never, and I mean never, made to feel anything but completely wanted.
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With my mom, in particular, I always had an innate feeling that I had come here to look out for her, and to be honest, I loved it. In our quirky, often role-reversal relationship that paralleled Gilmore Girls in astonishing ways—and that was uncommonly natural and nurturing for both of us—I was
given free reign to stand firmly, and unapologetically, in who I was from the time I could talk. Not only did my mom and I enjoy open conversations, but my opinions were also always welcome and considered. And I must confess that from kindergarten all through high school; I delighted in not only having the youngest mom of all my friends and classmates but the coolest and most fun. But it went even deeper than that.
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For all of her quirks and teasing me at times, one thing my mom did brilliantly and seamlessly was to, without fail, display genuine joy and pride in my achievements. Sure, most parents want better for their children than they might have had, but others, in their immaturity or insecurity, aim to keep their children down so that they can feel superior.
But my mom, despite how young she was and despite the emotional wounds she carried deep within, never resented that I had opportunities she never had or excelled in areas she didn’t. In fact, I was often the one to compare myself to her, wanting to be as radiant, winning, and attractive as she was. As dissimilar as we were in many ways, and as solid as I was in my own convictions and personal choices that differed from hers, I was proud of the ways we were alike, and she was still that glowing presence to me that all the kids had oohed and aahed over whenever she came to my school.
My mom and I ended up living apart during my teen years, and though I had a wonderful dad, it was tough not having the constant presence of my mom. When we moved in together as adults, however, it was like playing old songs you know all the lyrics to and whose beats and melodies are part of you. Cultivating our signature witty banter, replete with a host of favorite movie lines, and honing our particular us-ness miraculously happened as if we picked up right where we’d left off. This is not to say we wouldn’t be separated more than once in subsequent years or that we wouldn’t experience degrees of heartache. But one thing that never waned and that I never failed to recognize and cherish was her ever-present brand of unconditional love.
Over the years, I’ve often been met with surprise that I “turned out so well,” considering my nontraditional family and being born to a 16-year-old mother who was always more playmate than the parent, or even more daughter than mother to my old-soul sensibilities. “Didn’t that rob you of your childhood?” people have asked me. “Did you ever resent your unusual dynamic?”
When I smile and say with complete honesty that I experienced neither of those things, I’m met with even more surprise.
I suppose I could have chosen to view my childhood as coming from a broken home, or wished I had a more traditional mom, or even longed to have married parents in one stable family home my entire life. But in my case, I saw my childhood for what it genuinely was: remarkably carefree. Perhaps it was made up of fragments, but those fragments that comprised my family fit together like a prism that sparkled with love and acceptance on all sides. As for having a more “traditional” mother, it never crossed my mind because I was enamored with having a mom who was young and fun and such a wonderful friend and whose offbeat parental instinct gave me enormous freedom, allowing me to always be my authentic self. And that two-parent family residing in one home? Sure, I loved having stability, and my dad and grandparents provided that in spades. But I honestly couldn’t imagine how having married parents under a solitary roof could compare with the wonderfully varied life I enjoyed with all the angels who came together with such love to raise and support me.
It’s natural to ponder the what-ifs of life; the “Is the Grass Really Greener Over There?” point of view. But like the reader who told me my story helped her see her childhood through a different lens, maybe all any of us sometimes needs to uncover hidden blessings in our lives is a little shift in perspective.
An Excerpt from Raising and Losing, My Remarkable Teenage Mother.
