The Case for Young Mothers
By Tiffany Lewis

The other day at the park I befriended an elderly Spanish-speaking woman babysitting twin toddlers.  We conversed back and forth and she watched me frolic around with my two boys.  As she was leaving she pointed and asked, "La hermana?"

"Oh no," I said, assuming she was referring to my two-year-old.  "He's a boy."

She shook her head.  "No – you.  Are you their big sister?"

I laughed.  "No, I'm their mother!"

"Ahh!" she exclaimed, "but you are just a baby!"

Which is, I must admit, entirely true.  I often feel that I am simply playing an extended version of make-believe "house," only my kitchen set is much bigger and the pizza isn't plastic.  These little boys running around are simply life-size dolls, except the dirty diapers, sadly, are very real.

I have tremendous respect for women who decide to have their first child at 50.  I honestly wonder how they do it.  I'm a relatively fit, energetic person, but by the end of the day I'm usually lying on the floor, exhausted.

With these older mothers, where does their liquid energy come from?

Mine comes from sugar cereals and chocolate chips stashed in the freezer.  These are things you can't eat once you're All Grown Up.  And here's another confession: When no one is looking, sometimes I drink the milk right out of the carton.

I elicit stares wherever I go, this funny young mother who actually seems happy. People assume that because I am young I must have stumbled into motherhood by accident. And I must not be very bright. On my first visit with my OB/GYN in Miami he asked about my highest level of education. A look of surprise came over his face when I told him I have a bachelor's degree.

"In what?" he asked incredulously. As I was leaving my appointment he gave me a kiss on the cheek (he's Chilean, so he's allowed to do that) and said, "Ah, my grandmother had six children by your age, but you, you seem so young."

And I am.  But that's the beauty of it.  I'm a kid raising kids.  I dance and sing to Raffi.  I'm the only mother at the park who munches on goldfish crackers and sips juice boxes along with her kids.  I get just as excited about Dr. Seuss as my 2-year-old.   Sometimes I throw tantrums.  I probably deserve to go to "timeout" occasionally.

I love browsing the toy section at Target and playing Legos with my son.  I make a mess of my food at dinner (I could really use one of those catch-all bibs).  I don't like picking up after myself – the boys' room is a toy tornado; mine is an explosion of books and papers.

I need that daily nap almost more than my kids, and snack time is my favorite time of day. We sit on the rug, my boys and I, scattering cracker crumbs everywhere. We roll and run, and I don't have to worry about pulling a muscle or cracking a rib.

And because my husband and I are young, we are also poor. We have absolutely nothing of value in our house. Our kids climb all over the couch, puke on the rug, color on our comforter. I grew up in a family where crayon murals on the wall were an outlet for creativity.  I want my kids to know that they're more important than a few pieces of cloth and wood glued together.  Things are replaceable; childhood is not. I feel bad for children who live in homes resembling museums, where the only thing they're allowed to play with is their toys. Since when did children want to play with toys? They'd rather dissect the vacuum or gnaw on the phone.

Now, don't get me wrong. I have several 40-year-old friends who are brand-new mothers.  And they are wonderful mothers. I just don't like feeling this collective sense of societal guilt for not plunging ahead with my career, as if I'm the one doing things backwards.  Why should I spend my energetic young years sitting in a cubicle until I am worn out, and then decide to have kids?  To me, it seems counterintuitive.

I love being a mother while I still have an ounce of energy, while I still have most of my teeth, and before the gray hairs set in.  I want to kick my heels as high as my kids when we swing, not sit on a bench and crochet. I want to sing "Nephi's Courage" with as much vigor and vim as the Sunbeams.

Because no matter our age, we're all learning as we go, tripping and stumbling our way through this fantastical ride called motherhood. Only I'd rather not do it with a walker.  I'd rather do it in pigtails.