The judgmental stares start as soon as I pull up into the parking lot of the neighborhood park.
Among the rows and rows of gleaming silver and gold Honda Odysseys, I park my 1997 Buick LaSabre and pop the trunk. I grab the stroller out the trunk and head to one side of the car to unbuckle my 2-year-old daughter. I grab her hand and we head to the other side to get her younger brother.
I plop him in the stroller and take the kids to the maze of swings and slides.
The other mothers look up casually when they see me. Then they do a double take.
A young 20-something mom.
With two kids.
And I’m black.
“Hmmm,” I can hear them thinking. I live in an area where if I see another black person, I stop and make conversation. It’s that rare. So our presence was met with questioning looks.
As we move to the different areas of the park, my daughter jumping from swing to swing, the other moms and kids scatter as we approach. I honestly don’t mind, because I like my privacy and don’t care for chit-chat when trying to keep up with two kids under two.
The awkwardness continues when it’s time to go home and I get the disapproving stares as I load my kids into my car with the high mileage and loud engine.
True, I don’t have the 2009 minivan of the year as I schlep my kids here and there. But you know what? I love my car just the same.
My husband (then boyfriend) purchased the car for me shortly after we discovered I was pregnant with our first. At the time, I had no car, no easy way to get to my doctor’s appointments. That man emptied his savings to get me that car to make sure WE (me and our unborn child) were okay. For me, that car is a big honking symbol of our love, even more so than my wedding ring.
But they wouldn’t possibly know that. Couldn’t know it. When I get questions like, “So is their dad in the picture?” I’m also sure they don’t care.
To be a young mom is one thing. To be a young black mom? That’s just asking for judgment.
I first noticed it with my first child, when I was in the hospital recovering after my C-section. Every doctor, nurse, janitor, even the lady that comes around to take the newborn photos, glanced slyly at my ring finger and casually made conversation like I was a single mom, even though my husband was sitting next to me and we were both wearing wedding rings.
People ask, “Are you the babysitter?” when I’m out with my crew.
Perfect strangers inquire about my salary and my ability to provide for my kids.
I’ve been verbally accosted by two elderly women for (get this) sitting in my car with my daughter outside of the drugstore. They looked in my car, wrinkled their noses, and I heard one mutter, “Babies having babies” as they walked away.
My coworkers almost always ask me how my boyfriend is doing, no matter how many times I correct them with “husband.”
Deep sigh.
It seems like motherhood only comes in two forms: the confident, advanced in her career 30-something mom or the downtrodden, why-didn’t-she-just-keep-her-legs-closed teen mom.
I fit neither of those categories. And I’m glad I don’t.
I’ve learned more about myself, my values, my goals, my ambitions, my husband, my friends in the past three years than I would have otherwise. I became a mother before I was ready, but who is ever 100 percent ready for the job?
Lots of people spend their 20s learning who they are. I’m spending my 20s learning who I can be, with my kids there to witness.
I love that they will be there every step of the way with me. They’ve had a front row seat to every accomplishment I’ve had thus far. I took my final exams six days after giving birth to my daughter, my stomach throbbing from the stitches. I breastfed my daughter, then shrugged on my graduation gown and walked across the stage to grab my diploma. I got my first raise a few months after returning from maternity leave with my son.
They’re here to see it all, from beginning to end. When it’s all said and done, I will look back at my career and say, “We did this together.”
So when the other moms shun me on the playground, I don’t let it bother me. I hop in my trusty, reliable boat of a car, and throw a glance at the angels in the backseat.
Wouldn’t trade it for the world. Or a new minivan.
Originally published on MyBrownBaby in 2009.