There is that look again: Another teenager got herself knocked up. I’ve seen the look pass between middle-aged mothers in public too often lately, this time at our weekly library story time.  My son and I watch as a teenage mom settles down with her toddler daughter in her lap. When the little girl refuses to sit still, her mother removes her, carrying her screaming off to the bathroom. And, then, two moms next to me lock eyes, silently telling each other, “See, she’s a terrible mother.”

I often wore the same look as teenage girls’ bellies swelled in my classroom when I taught high school.  I judged them for not making better decisions.  Even after I had my own child, I still saw teen mothers as inferior to middle-aged moms. I felt there was no way they could do as good of a job raising their children as married, older moms. And good riddance, I thought, because they deserved the consequences of their actions. And, helping them or feeling sorry for them meant condoning the mistake they had made.

Just the week before, my own son ran up and down the aisles of books at the library.  This week, he is in my lap listening to the story, but luck, not my age, is what ensures this behavior. I watch as the teen mom carries her daughter to the bathroom, remembering the warm rush of embarrassment on my own face last week. I instantly think of my friend Colie.

Colie got pregnant when she was nineteen.  When she told her parents, they kicked her out of their house. My sister volunteered to let Colie and her baby move in with her. Colie’s son spent his first year sleeping in a laundry basket while she and her son’s father raised the money to get their own place.  “So few people really understood what I was going through,” Colie now says. “It was particularly difficult because I could tell so many women thought that because I was young, I was an unfit mother.”

Now in her thirties, Colie is one of the best mothers I know.  Her two children always say please and thank you.  They earn honors at school and are kind, always asking about my family when I visit them.  She disciplines her children with a simple look.  She’s one of those moms, the kind of mom I secretly wish I could be.  She goes to soccer and baseball practices and games often five times a week. She has a career and still fully participates in her children’s lives.  I’m sure if you asked her, Colie would have preferred having children later in life, but sometimes an accident is a blessing, not a mistake. Colie says, “I think most people just thought that I was playing house and not taking my responsibilities seriously when, in actuality, my number one priority was making sure my son was completely taken care of.  I put him above everybody and everything else. It hasn't been easy, but I honestly wouldn't change a thing.”

I think back to those days when Kyle, her first, was a newborn.  I was busy going to keg parties on the weekends and writing essays on Updike’s short stories during the week.  I don’t think I ever changed one of Kyle’s diapers for her or called to ask if I could babysit so she could go out with her boyfriend.  I thought she was living out the consequences of her actions and didn’t deserve my help.

Sometimes being a mother can be very lonely. Our husbands, despite their willingness to help, look to us to make the decisions, like whether or not to sleep-train or when to introduce solid foods.  We bear the responsibility of motherhood, and even if we bear it well, the weight is not light.  I look to other moms online and in parenting groups for advice and encouragement.  I can only imagine how lonely it is for a teen mom, whose parents might have kicked her out, who may be working full-time, who may have put plans to go to college on hold, or who may or may not have any support.  I can’t imagine juggling two a.m. feedings, colic, going to school, and learning about myself all at seventeen. 

I recently decided to start mentoring at a local shelter for teenage mothers to let the girls there know they are not alone. I’m going to stop judging teen mothers and start helping them. I’ve realized they are living with consequences, whether I help them or not.

Back at the library, the young mom carries her tantrum-throwing daughter out of the door just as I am leaving.  She drops her daughter’s hat, and I reach down, giving it back to her.  

“Thanks,” she says.

I smile.  “Hey, no problem.”  

“I’m really sorry,” she apologizes. “She isn’t always like this.”

“Oh, hey,” I explain, “trust me.  We’ve all been there.” I nod toward my son, who bends down to examine a leaf that has blown into the library entryway.  “You should have seen him last week.  Climbing the walls.”

“Thanks,” she says again. 

 We part ways, down two different paths, fighting our own way in the same battle.

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Carrie Allison is a poet and freelance writer. Her poetry chabook Pointing Toward Home is available through Mid-America Press. A former teacher, she now stays home with her toddler son Elliott.