The Girl Who Couldn't Say No: Memoir of a teenage mom

by Tracy Engelbrecht

  Show me a single mother with time to do her nails and drink Sauvignon Blanc in a candlelit bubble bath and I’ll show you somebody who feeds her children McDonalds four nights a week. There’s just not enough time in the day for that sort of luxury. That elusive Balance, you read about? It’s an evil myth. There is no such thing. The best you can hope for is moments of sanity and equilibrium amid frantic juggling, a moment when all the chainsaws are up in the air and you think you know where they will land when they come down. Sometimes you’re right, and sometimes you’re… um… not.

  As a single mother, something’s gotta give. In my case, I’ve simply dispensed with the preposterous Me-Time charade. Me Time. Oh pulleez – pull the other one, it’s got bells on. It’s one of the biggest modern-day scams perpetrated against women the world over. Whose crazy idea was it, I’d like to know? Probably a committee of overtired, coked-up glossy mag journalist types, who dreamed it up one night in a desperate bid to fill 500 words between the Prada and Gucci ads, with a catchy headline designed to make us frazzled plebs buy more magazines. “Ditch The Guilt!” the windswept and airbrushed lovelies proclaim from the covers of glitzy mags.

  Overjoyed to find something written that says it’s okay to be tired and want a minute on the loo by yourself, you part with your R30 and flip straight to the headline page, only to find half a page of ridiculous, bullet-pointed ideas on how to Spend Time With Yourself. To pull them off, you’d need a staff of thirty and a parliamentarian’s salary. Despondent and ashamed, you trudge home to your sticky un-Supernannied kids and two-minute noodles, while the magazine’s smart-arsed words clang about in your head: Ditch The Guilt, Love Yourself, Eat More Lettuce… But you can’t, even if that sequined nineteen-year-old on the cover said you should. Because, right or wrong, guilt is part of what being a mother is about. So now you feel guilty about feeling guilty. They’re just making more rules for us, more impossible standards to live up to. Why can’t everybody leave us mothers austus mothlone and let us get on with it in peace? I ask you. Screw you all, I say, and let us choose how we do it.

  Me Time is a lovely idea if you have a nanny, a couple of housekeepers and pots of money. And a husband, preferably. If you have none of the above, an hour of Me Time a day simply becomes one more chore to add to your list. One more thing you have to fret over, when you fall into bed exhausted at midnight and scroll through the list of tasks you should have completed that day.

  I’ve given up on the idea of special time set aside just for me, time when my children must bugger off and leave me in peace to read Jodi Picoult, or do Pilates, or whatever takes my fancy this month. I think it’s sort of nasty, too. It’s one thing to leave your children with the babysitter while you go to the movies. It’s another altogether to make them feel like they’re cramping your style at home. It simply doesn’t work for me. A boozy bubble bath equates to one load of washing plus hanging time, or half a Barbie DVD with popcorn, or getting to bed half an hour earlier to drool unprettily onto my pillow. Honestly, which one are you going to choose? Who likes bubble bath that much, anyway?

  What works is grabbing five minutes whenever I can to sit and stare into space, even if it means tuning out, for just one extra minute, plaintive cries from the bathroom of “Mommy! Come wipe my bum!” Cheese snackwiches for supper translates into an hour I don’t have to spend in the kitchen – cucumber and apple on the side takes care of the balanced-diet issue.

  My Me Time doesn’t have a special name or a special timeslot. I take it when and where I can get it, and I don’t feel like a failure when I don’t get it. Now that’s progress.

  Epilogue

  In which she gets a life and tries to live it

  Well, there you have it. We’re up to date. All that’s left now is to tell you what’s been happening lately.

  As I write this, Steven has just started Grade Seven, close to the age at which my own story began. He’s on the verge of becoming a teenager and that’s hard to believe. I can’t quite get my head around the idea that I could have a child of that age. Will someone please tell me what the hell happened?

  I’m sitting here looking at the badges I need to sew onto his school shirts, wondering how I can possibly get out of doing it. I’m no seamstress. I can cook and bake and iron reasonably decently, but sewing is beyond me.

  That little voice I heard all those years ago, the baby who told me I would be okay before he was even born, has grown into a smart, sensitive young man with size-nine feet – someone I look up to, figuratively and literally (he’s already taller than me, and it’s only going to get worse). I had a warm, fuzzy moment the other day when I heard one of his friends telling him he’s got such a cool mom. I liked that. I’ve never been cool before, and I suspect I am now only because the other moms are Tupperware Tannies over forty-five –flipping ancient, when you’re twelve.

  High school is just around the corner, and yeah, I’m terrified. He will probably go to my old school, which is going to be a bit of a mind-fuck for me, if you’ll excuse my French. I’ve been back there a few times, for school variety concerts and so on. It’s smaller than I remember (much like my entire summer wardrobe from last year), but besides that it’s like stepping into a time warp.

  My old locker is still in the same place, I swear, still with the same graffiti on it (“Die, Yuppie Scum” and Joan Baez prose about goats). That same old tree is still standing in the quad – the one I used to hide my pregnant belly behind. Weird.

  I’ve been into the girls’ bathroom and stood in the very same spot where I told my friends I was pregnant. Standing there with my eyes closed, the smell of Jeyes fluid in the air, I could see the ghosts of those giggly girls. And I remembered the girl I used to be. I feel a little sad, for some reason I can’t quite fathom. I don’t miss that girl. She wasn’t happy – she was terminally self-absorbed and kinda irritating. But I am grateful to her for everything I have become. I think she’d be proud. I think she knew it would be okay. I remember standing in that bathroom all those years ago and feeling like I wasn’t alone. Like somebody out there was watching out for me. And somebody was. Just as I can sense the presence of that Teenage Tracy here today, I think she could feel me – the me I am today – that day in August, 1993. Far from finding it disturbing, I find these emotions pretty comforting.

  I wonder if the teachers will remember me when I take Steven there to sign him up?

  I don’t want him to go through the shit I did but, realistically, it’s likely he will. I hope, I pray, that when it comes time for me to help him deal with life, I will remember what it felt like for me. I don’t know how much of a difference that will make to him, but I can try. That’s all we can do. And hope our trying is enough.

  It dawned on me this week that a lot of what Steven will be going through as a teenager is going to be new to me. I stopped being a teenager before I turned fifteen. I went straight from just-out-of-childhood to some kind of weird quasi-adulthood, almost overnight. I never did the stuff sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds do. I’ve never been there. It’s going to be totally foreign to me, and I hope I don’t stuff it up too badly for him. Will have to let you know how it goes.

  eight="0" width="48">Maria is five years old and in Grade R. She’s already talking about Big School. I picture her in pigtails and a school dress way too long for her, and I want to cry. My last baby, almost going to school. Things change when your children go to primary school. From that very first day they’re moving away from you towards their own lives; you realise one day you don’t know everything about them anymore. You feel old. Don’t laugh. I’m twenty-eight, but feel much older. Well, kinda. Mostly I just feel ageless (not timeless, which I think has something to do with Botox). People ask my age and I usually need a calculator to work it out.

  Before you have children, you’re the star of your life – The Me Show, with everyone else being the chorus. Then you wake up one day and the bastards have cancelled you and stuck you on the Series Channel. You’ve been red
uced to recurring guest roles on other people’s shows. And the weird thing is, that’s okay. Really, it is. What you give up is nothing compared with what you gain. If you don’t believe that, you just don’t get it. Even if it sounds corny. Just can’t be helped, it’s true.

  The rest of my family is doing well, too. Emma is now the proud mother of a happy four-month-old boy, Thomas. She has an excellent case of neurotic paranoia going on, good enough to rival my own. She’s a fabulous mother – I look at her and see how I should have been doing it all along.

  Being an aunty is really cool – all of the fun and none of the poo.

  Mom and Dad seem to thrive on the grandchildren idea. We’re still the strong, connected family we’ve always been. We’re lucky. Not many families could have pulled that off and still remained close. Of course we fight – we always will. But we’re a great team, and I know how much I need them all.

  And me? What about me? For nearly thirteen years I was happy with my guest-starring role. Then, last year, something changed. Could have been some kind of quarter-life crisis, or maybe Mercury retrograded into the fifth house of Sagittarius or some kak. Whatever. Major things have happened, not the least of them the Executive Decision that spaghetti-strap tops may still be worn, even if no weight were ever lost. One of the most freeing decisions you’ll ever make, believe you me.

  And I wrote a book, which, by the way, is pretty damn hard. I’m somewhat proud and it has definitely been good for me. Nothing like re-reading reams of pages of me-me-me for the seventeenth time to swiftly extricate the head from the butt.

  There have been some interesting developments on the, shall we say, romantic front. Yeah, let’s call it that. Sounds so much better than blurting out, “I got laid! A lot! Yippee!”

  I started dating for the first time in five years and, oh Lordy, save me from theng= me fro gut-wrenching fear. Nevertheless, I kept at it and slowly my usual bolshie Ice Queen sensibility began to thaw. Very slowly. And not without a good dollop of white-knuckled resistance. But just long enough to get myself one of those boyfriend creatures. Not the crappy, budget version either – those that are cheaper and easier to find, but need replacing every three months. No. No more pennywise and pound foolish for me. I’m after the real deal. I think I’ve found it.

  Oh my Gawd, I hear you gasp. How did she manage that? Does she still remember how it works? Truth is, nope. I did have some feminine wiles once, but they got rusty and fell off, so I had to rely on my sharp wit and sparkling personality to land myself a man. And a very lovely man he is too, even if I did find him on the Internet. The fact that my online dating profile included only a headshot probably helped. Full-length photos might not have got me out of the starting blocks.

  And before you ask: Yes, there are many sinister stalkers in cyberspace. Gross, married men all looking for discreet daytime fun. And some lonely, desperate model-train enthusiasts dressed by their mothers. But that’s a story for an entirely different book: How to get a single mother into bed… It would be a very short book. Hint: wash the dishes. What a good idea such a book would be – practically a public service. If there’s anything we frazzled single mothers need to keep us sane, it’s regular recreational sex with people who are not axe-murderers, child molesters or entirely ignorant of the female anatomy. And familiar with soap and deodorant. Preferably able to string two words together. Unless they smell really good. Then intelligent conversation is irrelevant.

  But there are also plenty of ordinary, nice enough people that you might otherwise never get to meet. It’s worth a shot, if you have half a brain and can distinguish between potential serial killer and potential husband. Um… I know. Quite similar and difficult to distinguish – just use your common sense.

  It’s still early days for Mr Cyberspace and me. (No, I was not looking at that wedding dress. Of course not! Are you crazy? Marriage? Pah!). I’m not allowing myself to get over-excited, because I don’t want to look like a gigantic, lovesick idiot in six months’ time. There. Aren’t you proud of my restrained nonchalance? Let me assure you, no more gushing from this baby.

  Okay, okay. I’m lying and we all know it. I’m in love! I feel wonderfully gooey and happy. And yes, dammit, I was looking at the wedding dress. Put that up your jumper and smoke it.

  We’ll see how it turns out, I guess. Whatever happens, I know I’ll be okay. That’s a great thing to know. It means you can do anything, and not be afraid. I’m not such a cold, cynical bitch, after all. Not nearly as much as I used to be, at any rate. It’s progress.

  Would I do it all again? If I could go back, would I still choose this path? Would I choose to have a baby at fifteen, knowing what I know now? Id g know nt’s been a long, confusing, scary, exhausting road. I’ve doubted myself so many times. I’ve hated myself. I’ve felt alone. I’ve felt ashamed of myself at times. I’ve cried, convinced I couldn’t do it. Who would choose that?

  Me. That’s who. I would do it all over again. I have a life now, though I sometimes don’t know what to do with it. I’m still tired – I haven’t had an uninterrupted night’s sleep in thirteen years. I’m frequently Red Bulled up to my eyeballs, which isn’t particularly healthy, but at least I’m not a tik head. I still try too hard to be perfect. I still have fantasies of being the world’s greatest mother, writer, employee, daughter, fellatrix, all-round saintly-type person who can make Duck L’Orange out of her head. I want to be all of that, while maintaining my staggering wit and Botticellian loveliness. Stop sniggering, damn you. It still annoys me that I can’t be all of those things, but I am learning that “good enough” means just that. Hardest lesson I’ve ever learnt.

  The voices are still there: Sensible Tracy, Flaky Tracy, Sister Tracy... But I’m learning to override them now, just barely. It’s a struggle every day, but I’m finally the one in charge – and although they don’t like it, they’re getting the message. I may doubt sometimes, but truly I know I’ve done okay, scary body mass index and sucky saintliness-index notwithstanding.

  I can feel, with every tiny bit of my being, that this is where I am supposed to be. It’s not tragic, it’s not second best – it’s perfect. My children and I, we were meant to be. I believe it, I know it. Nobody else has to agree, nobody else has to care. Nobody else has to feel it. Just us. And we do.

  PS Oh, by the way. I can say no, actually. I say no all the time. I say no to drugs, to sex with strangers, to dodgy meat pies, to heavy lifting. That old Methuselah of a doctor who told me to go on the pill because I’m obviously one of those girls who can’t say no had it so wrong. Rude man.

  ####

  About the author

  Treige="Ariaacy Engelbrecht is a writer and mother of two. She lives in Cape Town and doesn’t grow freakishly large prizewinning vegetables, but she does do a nice lasagne and her children aren’t in therapy yet, so things are going well. She hardly ever drinks pina coladas or gets caught in the rain, but she’s working on it.

  That’s the official story. The truth is, of course, much less exciting.

  I was once The Girl Who Couldn’t Say No, but these days I’m mom and eternal tea-maker to a teenage son, and mommy and copious cuddler of a tween daughter – both unique specimens of delicious humanity, way cooler than you’d expect with me as a mom. I’m also blogger, a columnist and a Tweeter-in-training. What else? Ah, yes. Thinker, reader, pudding-fantasist, champion-napper and above all, a sensible girl.

  Hopelessly inelegant and perfectly inappropriate for every occasion, I wear my awkwardness like a badge of honour. I have to. It’s the only jewellery I own not made from macaroni.

  I am also the founder of Young Mom Support, a support group for young and teenage moms in Cape Town, South Africa. All proceeds from every copy of The Girl Who Couldn’t Say No go towards supporting our group and our moms. Thank you, you’ve already made a difference.

  PS I’ve given up on the pina colada thing (see above). It was never me anyway; I’m much more a creme soda float girl. Wif sprinkles

>   Find me online

  Twitter: http://twitter.com/tracyengelb

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/GirlWhoCouldntSayNo

  My blog: http://tracyengelbrecht.com

  Young Mom Support: http://youngmomsupport.co.za