The stares, the sneers, the whispers. People stood behind me and craned their necks as I walked past with Tyrone, my fake baby for my Infant Development class. People started talking about me before I was even out of earshot, some people even came up to me to ask me what was up with him in which I had to explain how he’s a Real Care (C) baby. I only have him until Monday but already I feel the burden of teen parenting.
On Friday night my mother took me to walmart so we could get some ingredients for our grilled cheese night. It was nothing special, and we put his car seat on the basket and just walked around, debating to get provolone or colby jack, bacon or roast beef. As we pushed through the produce section, in search of bell peppers, we met the first of the sneers. Previously a boy from my school had commented how he hated the baby, but he understood it was a project, but this woman looked at me with complete disdain, as if I was a Hester Prynne incarnate. As the baby began to fuss I said, “Hush, Tyrone,” and saw her lip curl in disgust. I can only imagine she thought it was a mixed child (when in fact it’s Asian) or thought of me as “white-trash” (mind you I had only named it Tyrone because my friend Austin had nagged me until I agreed to name it such). Only thirty minutes in walmart and already I was starting to get the sense that teen parenting isn’t all MTV cracks it up to be (not that it cracks it up to be much, besides a way to get on TV).
On Saturday my grandmother took my younger and I to the Children’s Museum, a fun place I used to love as a child. While Tyrone only cried once the entire time we were there, to be fed, the parents looked at me with such intensity it was almost disgusting. Some people asked if it was a project, others didn’t bother to check if he was even real. Some people probably assumed my five-year-old brother was also my child (yeah, like I had a kid at ten) and that I was a super Hester Prynne incarnate. I heard the kids asking questions, saw their chubby or stumpy fingers pointing, and heard some of the grandparents snickering and making such remarks it would make Giovanna Plowman blush. As we left three hours later, dragging my little brother along with us (he wanted to stay forever), we met the rudest, coldest woman ever. Here I am, holding the hand of a screaming toddler and struggling to carry a carseat with a baby in it and all she did was stand there as I opened the door, holding them open with my back as I tried to maneuver through the entrance and as the door swung shut I heard her mutter to her two young granddaughters, “That girl has no shame. This is why you save yourself, so you don’t end up like her.” I didn’t even know this woman, nor did she have an honest idea of who I was.
On Sunday I went to training for work. Most people asked me about it but no one really made the snide comments since it was on “quiet time” and these were people comfortable with talking to me. Plus I had informed them. But some of the people at Subway after work couldn’t take their eyes off the fifteen year old carrying a carseat in, a blanket over the “sleeping” baby. It actually surprised me how shocked people were to see teenage parents.
In just one weekend I have come to realize that we harp too much on teen parents. We don’t know their story, we don’t know them. So why don’t we get off our high horses, stop playing Judge Judy, and, while we may not approve of what they did, meet them with open arms and open hearts. It’s the least we can do. After all, if I got this in only a few days, how would it feel for a lifetime?
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