When I found out I was going to be a mother at 21, there were those who advised me to take a different route than raising her myself. You won’t be able to give her all that she needs or deserves, they said. All the things older, more settled parents could give her.
It was the concept I rebelled against most during that time of indecision, the months I was desperately seeking a way to convince myself and everyone else that I was capable of motherhood.
So from the moment Skye took her first breath, I swore to myself that I’d ensure she has all the opportunities for health, love and happiness available. Four years later and I’m still striving for that, every single day.
Family and friends who adore her constantly surround Skye; while there are only about 20 items on her list of foods deemed edible, she has never gone hungry. She is never wanting in the newest and best toys to play with, admittedly mostly thanks to doting grandparents.
She is happy, healthy and loved – and spoiled.
Looking back on those first few weeks of terror and wavering confidence, I know I’ve proven those skeptics wrong. I’ve also started to wonder. Does it really matter what age we become parents, when we all of us are just trying to provide better—more—for our kids than what we had ourselves?
When I was a child, one of my favorite parts about visiting my aunt and uncle was getting to play with my younger cousin’s dollhouse. It was a little girl’s dream, three stories with all the homey accessories. Mom, Dad, twin babies and a big sister, all shiny plastic and perfectly groomed hair.
My dollhouse at home was made out of shoeboxes and definitely not the object of anybody’s dreams. The furniture was mismatched and mostly homemade, fake appliances that only lit up in my imagination.
Sometimes, when we went to the dump, our parents would let us sift through other people’s trash to find our own hidden treasures. I had a canopied Barbie bed that was one of my most prized dump finds. The bed was made of flimsy plastic and one of the posts holding up the canopy was broken, but the pink and white-checkered blanket was still perfectly intact. It was too big to fit in my shoebox house, but I didn’t mind.
Now, my daughter plays with a dollhouse that is even better than my cousin’s that I so coveted as a child. Fully equipped with model family, mini van and pimped-out RV. It was a hand-me-down from my best friend’s daughter, the only reason I could afford such a monstrosity is she sold it to me for a third of the original price.
Either way, I was able to give my daughter something better than what I had always wanted.
She plays with it for hours at a time and I happily join her, I’m not actually sure who enjoys it more. While it gives me intense joy and pride to see her play with the dollhouse of my childhood dreams, it also makes me think. When does the desire to give my daughter everything I never had but desperately wanted, begin to create a purely superficial creature?
I loved that Barbie bed, and even more our treasure-hunting trips to the dump. There was also a strange but strong pride in my makeshift dollhouse. I learned at an early age that everything I wanted wasn’t always going to be handed to me, and it made me a better person.
I may not have had the toy collection of my dreams as a kid – but I was never wanting in love or security, in happiness or the feeling of home.
So I want to worry less about making sure Skye has all the things I never had. My time will be much better spent making sure instead that she has all the feelings of love and happiness that I always did. And helping her understand that money can’t buy either one.
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This month we are delighted to partner with the State of Montana on a really cool national story-telling campaign called “THE SKY'S THE LIMIT.” For Montana, this project – including a special edition of Mamalode magazine and accompanying video series – features heartfelt stories about life, work and play under the big sky. But whether we are here or there, sky's the limit is about dreams come true, being your best self, letting your imagination lead and perhaps, conquering the impossible.
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