A woman with choices is a woman with power.
On June 2, 2006, after we’d been together five years and while Nick was on a break from the Strokes world tour, we took off last minute for Harbour Island in the Bahamas and got married on the beach, with two obliging locals as our witnesses. I was pregnant with twins and could just about squeeze myself into a very stretchy DVF beach dress. Our wedding vows were short but poignant. It was an intense moment for a super pregnant lady, and I sobbed uncontrollably the whole time.
This should be the part where I say we flew home after our fantastically romantic wedding and lived happily ever after, but that’s a Disney fantasy. The truth is, marriage is tough. Anyone who tells you it’s a breeze is not your friend. Can we make a pact that we’re no longer going to feel guilty for admitting that marriage is hard? A perfect marriage—just like a perfect life or a perfect body—is a myth. I was often unhappy in my first marriage, and there have been many times when I’ve been unhappy in my second marriage. The difference is that in my second marriage the happy moments mostly outweigh the unhappy ones.
I also don’t want to negate the fact that I am not exactly a walk in the park. I fought the traditional idea of marriage in many ways and admit that I actively sabotaged my second marriage for many years, which was a nightmare for us both. It takes a certain kind of man to live with and love a lady like me, with strong views and ambition, but after sixteen years, Nick hasn’t left me yet.
It’s not a fluke that I married touring musicians. They go away a lot, and when they do, my time is my own, and I like that. Our twins were born October 19, 2006, the day Nick came home from an almost two-year tour with the Strokes. Being the excellent co-parent that he is, Nick took almost three years off work to raise kids with me, during which time we drove each other to distraction by being constantly under the same roof, a first for us. We solved this problem by giving Nick his own “man cave” in our house; I’m sure he is just as grateful for it as I am.
One thing that has been key to our marriage is creating a true partnership. We are equal partners. Nick is just as responsible as I am for making sure there is food in the fridge, feeding the kids, scheduling their sports games, and checking to make sure they’re wearing matching socks and sneakers. And yes, I know I am really lucky, but we have also both worked our asses off to get to this point, and let’s not forget that he is also very lucky to have me as his wife.
Another cornerstone of our marriage has been being open to change. People can change, but only when they truly want to. I have had to learn to do things that every ounce of my being has not wanted to do and that are far out of my comfort zone—like apologizing for something that was only partially my fault, knowing that all that mattered was taking responsibility for my part. Personal accountability is one of the important things that needs to happen for relationships to grow together, NOT apart.
How long will our marriage last?
I have no clue. My husband said to me the other day, “I can’t believe I’ve been touching just your boobs for fifteen years.” I laughed and said, “I know, what were you thinking? You were twenty-one and thought, ‘I’m going to just touch this chick’s boobs for the rest of my life?’”
I don’t know if I think forever is realistic. I subscribe to the idea that as long as we want to be together, we’ll be together.
Isn’t the thought of sixty years overwhelming?
I take it a day at a time.
Being married is in many ways a trade-off. You sacrifice the adrenaline rush and sense of freedom that come from being with someone new for the security and comfort of someone who knows everything about you and loves you anyway. Today, I wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world.
But of course, tomorrow might be a different story.
7.
Not All Teen Moms Are Crazy
I was the original teen mom at a time when the only famous people in the UK were British royalty, some old male newscasters, Elton John, Duran Duran, and me, an eighteen-year-old pregnant talk-show hostess.
In my own way, I like to think that I challenged the perception of a teenage mother. The stereotype of a “teen mom” was a young girl who got knocked up because she made stupid choices, which was not the case with me or many of the young mothers I have met. I think it’s often more complicated than that, but anyway there I was, happily pregnant with the child of John Taylor—the man every girl in England wanted to marry. People were shocked that teen pregnancy could “happen” to a girl like me, that it must have been an accident. But make no mistake, my daughter was planned, and choosing motherhood at age eighteen is to this day one of the best decisions that I’ve made.
It was a year or so after John and I had begun dating when I started to get crazy tired and insanely nauseated. When it didn’t subside after two weeks, I had a feeling I knew the source of my symptoms. So I went to the local pharmacy and bought a pregnancy kit.
On the short walk home I remember feeling as if the test was burning a hole in my coat pocket, like a secret begging to be told. With the urgency of someone whose life might be about to change irrevocably, I hurried into the loo, ripped open the test, and followed the instructions. Then those sixty seconds with my knickers around my ankles, my eyes fixated on the little window of the stick, were unbearable. In the silence of the bathroom, I could hear my own breathing and the traffic outside getting louder and louder until, at last, I saw two faint pink lines begin to appear.
I closed my eyes and opened them again to refocus.
There they were.
Not one but two VERY pink lines.
I checked the box repeatedly.
One line is not pregnant.
Two. Lines.
Two means pregnant.
I was pregnant.
Holy shit, I was pregnant!!!
My brain could not compute.
Then I started to rationalize that maybe I had read the instructions wrong.
Just to be sure, I took the second test in the box. There was no denying it.
I was pregnant.
I don’t think you should have to tell a bunch of people when you first find out you’re pregnant. You don’t owe that information to anyone other than the man whose sperm fertilized your egg. I suggest sitting with your news for a while. Is this a pregnancy that you want but can’t have? Is having a baby not an option for you at this time? Do you want it but your partner does not? Or do you want it but you’re terrified? Are there no questions at all? Whatever the case, every woman should get to ruminate with this new information privately for a bit if she wants to.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have that opportunity. The pharmacist where I bought the pregnancy test must have notified the tabloids, as my pregnancy news hit the press within twenty-four hours. It was one of the rare occasions in which the tabloids got the story right, and suddenly, before I had time to figure out how to process anything, the whole country had something to say about it. An eighteen-year-old sassy TV host and the thirty-year-old bass player from a hugely successful band having a baby together ignited the perfect tabloid storm. Up until that moment, I hadn’t fully realized how famous I’d become, and it was a scary realization.
There was never a question whether we would keep the pregnancy. John was as ready as he would ever be. He’d run out of supermodels to date and had decided an eighteen-year-old TV host was the way to go. I’ll never know what possessed him to make this commitment to me, but I’m eternally grateful he did.
The moment I learned I was pregnant, my sense of purpose shifted immediately. I felt that my body now had a new, extremely important job. It was no longer there just for the fleeting pleasure of sexual conquests but to nurture and care for the person growing inside me.
I now think the nausea of early pregnancy is meant to prepare you for the shock of becoming a mother. If you can’t handle the morning sickness, get ready because that’s just the beginning. Your life is about to do a massive shape-shift, as will your body, your rel
ationship, your career, your friendships, your freedom—your whole life changes. I’m not saying it’s worse, but it is very, very different.
Like many professional women, I continued to work for the entire pregnancy. Since my job was hosting live TV, the simple act of continuing on with my daily life was interpreted as some sort of statement. The tabloid media went so far as to say I was a self-appointed teen pregnancy advocate, which was certainly news to me. I was just getting on with business but happened to be pregnant doing so.
Almost everyone close to me offered the following advice: “You will regret this, having a baby so young will ruin your life, don’t do it.” But I knew they were wrong, and I knew to listen to my own instincts, no matter what anyone else was saying.
My first baby arrived in the nick of time to literally save my life. John and I were madly in love, but we both had some untreated addiction issues—not the best circumstances in which to bring a child into the world. But the moment I was pregnant, I quit every activity that was unhealthy, and nine months, one week later, Atlanta Noo de Cadenet Taylor arrived and became my first true love. Even now, twenty-four years later, I still love her as much as I did the first time I laid eyes on her.
Atlanta was born in a hospital; this was before I knew about water tubs and hypnotic birth practices. John, who was by then my husband, was with me through all eight hours of labor. I vividly remember a moment when I felt as if I was leaving my body and looking down at myself giving birth. John was by my head, and Stevie Wonder was playing on the “Birth Mix” John had made especially for this moment. I hung out up there for a while, taking in my doctor, with his gloved hands poking around the entrance to my vagina, and the nurses close by. One nurse handed him an instrument that looked like giant cooking prongs, which he then inserted inside me. It seemed completely impractical to push an eight-pound-twelve-ounce person out of my vagina, and I wondered how this was going to work. But I reassured myself that millions of women had done it before me, and I trusted that some kind of ancient birthing wisdom would kick in, which it did. I didn’t look as if I was in pain; I looked quite peaceful as I followed the command to breathe in and push down on the exhale. I later learned that I was having what would be considered an out-of-body experience, or as I prefer to call it, a spiritual awakening. It was the first of many that being a mother would give me. As I pushed down one more time, I felt something hot and wet slide out of me and then heard a high-pitched little scream. It was strangely familiar and at the same time completely foreign. Seemingly without warning, I crashed back into my body and the reality that my girl, whose gender I had chosen not to discover beforehand, had arrived.
I think birth is as wondrous as it gets. I am mildly obsessed with watching Instagram videos of water births and babies born with the amniotic sac intact. I keep trying to show my kids these miraculous clips, but they think it’s inappropriate to see anonymous vaginas with babies’ heads coming out of them, despite my reassurances that it’s all natural and not creepy at all.
Women have such varied birth stories. I have one friend who claims she had an orgasm while giving birth, which could not be further from my experience. Other women I know swear by the wonder and sanctity of a home birth. I’ve always wanted to know how much cleanup is involved in a home birth and how expensive it is to get the carpet cleaned with a nice organic, nontoxic cleaner afterwards.
I had a regular old medicated delivery, nothing orgasmic about it. But I’ll tell you this: The moment I locked eyes with my little girl, I fell in love in the most complete and profound way imaginable. She was a little stranger yet someone I already knew and loved more than any other person on the planet. How does that happen? It’s still a mystery to me. Despite my instantaneous love, my first thought as the nurse placed her, all bundled up, in my arms was, Oh shit, I can really be hurt now. I was terrified that loving this little girl as much as I did could cause me a lot of pain. Yes, loving fully and completely is a risk, and there are times of immense, crippling sadness and pain, but without question, giving birth to her was one of the most profound, awakening moments of my life.
At nineteen, I obviously had no idea what it meant to become a mother. Most people don’t. A friend told me a story about coming home from the hospital with her newborn in the car seat, and just staring at her thinking, Now what? EVERYTHING comes with an official manual, except a baby. My only concept of parenting came from my own mother, who was and is one of the most loving and affectionate women I know. But while I absolutely learned how to be compassionate and kind and how to make a killer roast chicken from her, there was a lot about being a mother that I needed to learn. As an adult now and the mother of three, I can only imagine how petrified my mother must have been after my parents’ divorce, finding herself suddenly alone and largely responsible for two young children who were not easy to deal with, I’m sure.
The day I saw those double pink lines, I knew without a doubt that my child was going to have a different experience than I’d had. An unfamiliar feeling came over me, one that I’ve come to recognize as a sense of purpose. It was clear to me that my reason for being on the planet at that point in my life was to be this child’s mother.
Even though I have not one single regret about choosing motherhood at eighteen (or again at thirty-four), I recognize that becoming a mother is not for every woman. I’ve interviewed and known a lot of ladies who are very ambivalent about having children. Many of them say that they feel enormous pressure and judgment from family, friends, and society to become a mom.
That a woman’s “happily ever after” might not include children is threatening to some people. A woman who doesn’t want kids doesn’t fit with our family-values-oriented society. People assume something must be “wrong” with her and make assumptions about her fertility or about her sexuality. They call her selfish, or even more offensive, she can get called “extremely ambitious,” which bizarrely is still considered a major insult for women. The truth is that having kids is not for everybody—and respect to those who are self-aware enough to know they aren’t suited for it.
I wish that all mothers felt more comfortable honestly speaking about what it means to bring another human being into this world. The world expects women to behave as if the arrival of a baby is always a joyous event, but the reality is often way more complicated than that.
If you’re flat broke, in an unhealthy relationship, single and without resources, or you didn’t plan on getting knocked up, then finding out you’re pregnant isn’t great news. I was extremely fortunate in that both times I was pregnant, with Atlanta and my twins, I was financially secure and partnered with someone who was fully on board with the idea. I don’t take any of that for granted, not for one second.
It probably comes as no surprise that I am a fierce advocate of a woman’s right to choose. By that I mean a woman’s right to make choices about every aspect of her life, including her reproductive health. I also believe that instead of shaming women and girls who, for whatever reason, find themselves with an unwanted pregnancy, we must support them without judgment.
I say this because I was one of those women, and having an abortion was a difficult enough decision to make without the added pressure of being shamed or questioned by my family or community.
Fortunately, I lived in a state where women have access to the reproductive care they need through health insurance or Planned Parenthood. Under the jurisdiction of President Trump, this may all be about to change—women’s reproductive rights are threatened on a national scale, which is something that keeps me up at night.
I have been inside many abortion clinics, both during my own visits and those of my friends whom I accompanied for support. I had my first abortion when Atlanta was a child. I got pregnant with a partner who was adamant about his wish not to become a father. I was madly in love with him, and there was nothing I wanted more than to have a child with this beautiful, spirited man. But when I told him the news, he straight up said, “My dad split when I wa
s a kid, and I don’t want to be an absent father. Please do not make me do this until I’m ready, and I’m really not.” He was very clear about not wanting to be a father. I agonized over the decision, knowing that at eight weeks pregnant I didn’t have much time to decide.
Choosing to terminate the pregnancy was hands down one of the hardest choices I’ve ever made, and I deliberated up until the last possible moment. I was already a mother, and I knew what it was like to carry and birth a little person. But I loved this man so much and therefore had to honor his feelings and wishes, not just mine.
I believe that the decision to end a pregnancy is ultimately a woman’s to make; after all, she is the one carrying the embryo inside her body. In this case, however, the moral and practical decision was made with huge consideration of my partner’s wishes. I can imagine times when I would not have been so accommodating, but that was the right choice for me and him at the time.
Getting pregnant at thirty-four was very different from getting pregnant at eighteen. When Nick and I had been together for five years, we decided we were ready to be parents together. He was on tour at the time, so we would have what we jokingly called ovulation parties. Once a month, I would show up in Antwerp or Manchester or Saint Louis or some other out-of-the-way town that I would otherwise never visit, and Nick’s bandmates would know why I was there. I would keep Nick captive in his hotel room for days, perpetually postcoital, my butt propped up on a pillow, my legs against the wall. Gravity, I am convinced, assisted in me getting pregnant.
Twins run in families, but they skip a generation. Apparently, there were twins on my father’s side, which I did not know about until I called my grandmother in a state of shock and fear over the news my doctor had just given me. I knew what it was like to raise one child. But I couldn’t imagine what it would be like having two babies at once, and if I’m honest, it took me almost three years to get with the twin program.
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