The (Somewhat Lengthy) Story of Our First Love

Our number one. 
That is what Geoff calls her. 
And she was. She is. 

She came as a surprise. Not completely unexpected, because I know how a body works and what causes pregnancy, but definitely a surprise. A very scary one. 

I was doing laundry at the laundromat. 
I was twenty-one years old. 
And I knew. 

I pulled the laundry from the washing machines and threw them into the driers. Probably eight loads, because I usually waited until I had nothing left to wear and ended up hauling clothes by the trash-bag full into the 'mat, wearing a prom dress or men's wranglers and a pillow case as a shirt. Classy, I know. 

After piling about twenty dollars worth of quarters into the machines, I went to the dollar store and drove home with a pregnancy test in hand. I knew what it would say. I'd already had a dream about the child in my womb, and I knew I was pregnant, and that I was going to have a girl. 

The test's positive result only made it real... and very, very scary. 

In true class fashion, I returned to the laundromat to retrieve my dry clothes. My face red and wet with tears, I piled load after load into laundry baskets and trash bags. 

What. The. Hell. 

Some friends showed up after receiving my frantic phone call. I sat in the backseat of the car, in the laundromat parking lot, and I smoked a cigarette - maybe three, I can't remember - and I cried. 

My life was just beginning. I'd only been with my boyfriend (fiancee) for three months. We were having so much fun, getting to know each other, and drinking, and living, and loving. And it was over. My life was over at twenty-one years old, before it had even really begun. What had I done?

I showed up at the bar where Geoff was tending, the “He’s Not Here Saloon.” He knew why I was there. And he hugged me tight and told me it would be okay. I didn’t believe him, but at least I knew he was on my side.

We went to my parents’ church the next Sunday. Afterward, we sat in their living room, wondering how to say what it was neither of us wanted to say. I don't remember if my dad preached that day (he’s a deacon), but I knew I was about to shame him. My mom, angel in the choir, about to be railroaded by the news that no parent wishes to hear from their flighty, irrational, playful, unstable, dramatic, unmarried little girl. 

“We’re going to have a baby.”

Now, we'd already given them some cause for concern, though they took it like champs. We were together only a month when we got engaged. I think they'd met him once. But we knew we were in love, and we were getting married. 

The news of my pregnancy was shocking, but my mom already knew. She saw it in my face when she looked at me in Mass that morning. My dad knew, too. Parents are like that. 

They reacted in a way that would shame other parents. They were not angry. They did not yell.

Me, the preacher's daughter, engaged after only a month to a marijuana smoking hippie, then only a month later pregnant with his child.  

And they did not yell. They did not cry. My mom did not slap me and faint, and my dad didn't yell at Geoff to "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" 

In my memory, my mom said "Praise the Lord," and my dad said "Hallelujah." 
And that was that. 

They weren’t smiling. They were disappointed and shocked. But they were grateful that we told them, and for the life that we conceived.  They knew what was done was done, and that I was carrying their grandchild. They knew we'd made mistakes, and that we'd had sex before marriage. They knew that we were too young and too poor to parent. They knew this baby was going to change our lives forever. And they also knew that society pushed kids like us to seek an abortion, and that, in rejecting that option, they would get to meet their grandchild.  

Growing up my dad had always told me "Don't have sex before you're married. If you screw up and end up pregnant, don't you DARE kill my grandchild." 

Looking back, I am so grateful that he gave me that. When we were prepping to tell them, I didn't consider the shame I would bring on their name. I didn't consider how angry they would be. I knew they would love me, and love our child. So many young girls can't say the same. 

The next few months were precarious, speckled with very difficult and trying moments, and beautiful, joyful, loving ones. But they were hard. Very hard. We moved in to a small efficiency in an up and coming ghetto. The rent was $350 a month, and we struggled to even pay that. 

We were so young, and so stupid. We’d lived with booze and drugs and parties and friends and stupid decisions, and this being thrust into sudden adulthood was… tricky. We struggled with all of the above, and I was lonely and afraid. 

We loved each other so much, and we danced barefoot in our little backyard to Shady Grove. We hated each other with a dark passion, and we called it quits a hundred times. 

Our relationship was only just beginning, and to begin with such a huge responsibility was trying, to say the least. 

My friends tried to stay involved, but they were living their 21^st years, too. Their bars and parties were my Braxton-Hicks and Storks Nest classes. Some of them stuck it out with me, but my life was too much of a wreck. I was a project, a pregnant project, and though I grew more and more in love with the child growing inside my womb and my heart, I was a mess. 

We were a mess. A beautiful disaster, trying to make ends meet and coming up short. Close friends and my family, who supported us in every way possible (prayers, love, baby supplies, a baby shower) made it bearable, and, as my pregnancy progressed, more and more joyful. 

We were in love. That baby, moving on the sonogram, our love child… was perfect. We didn’t care if it was a boy or a girl, and we never found out (though, like I said, I already knew – I’d dreamed about her, and we already had her name). We didn’t care if she was healthy or not, deformed or hosting ten fingers and toes (though we prayed for health, of course). We just fell in love. Every time we saw her, with each sound of her beating heart, we fell deeper and deeper in love with her. 

We were so poor that we couldn’t pay rent, but our landlord didn’t evict us because he knew I was pregnant. We ate Ramen or cereal or potatoes and ham, if we ate at all. But it didn’t matter. 

The baby’s crib sat in a tiny little breakfast nook, which I’d painted to look like a sky with grass and flowers, and a tree in the corner with a cute little owl on a branch. There was no fancy nursery or theme. Her crib barely even fit. But it didn’t matter. 

Friends disappeared. But it didn’t matter. 

We struggled. But it didn’t matter. 

That baby… became all that mattered. 

August first, two thousand and four, God gave us a miracle that we didn’t deserve. And she was perfect. 

I was twenty-two years old, and had been married for two months. 

We named her AnnMarie Eve. AnnMarie, after our mothers’ middle names (along with the Grateful Dead lyrics “the first one’s named sweet AnnMarie, and she’s my heart’s delight). Eve, because she was the first girl (though it was changed at the last moment. Was to be Eva, after Eva Cassidy, the woman whose music was the soundtrack of our falling in love). 

Six pounds, three ounces. Tiny little body, head full of thick, black hair. 

And my world changed forever. I thought having a baby meant that it was over. And certainly certain parts were. 

What I didn’t know was that when they say “a baby changes everything,” it doesn’t mean for the worse. 

My heart ceased being mine that day. 

The next several years were not good in the Kelly home. We struggled financially, physically, spiritually. We battled addiction and poverty. 

But we stuck it out. We fought, and it was hard, but we did love each other, and we also laughed and danced. We knew from the first day together that we were meant to be Geoffica. Tragedy pulled us apart, but love always put us back together. 

And in the times when we didn’t know if we were going to get by, there was this perfect little person who relied on us, who had complete trust in us, and who kept us going, day after day after day. 

Our first, our number one, turned nine last month. I somehow can’t even believe that this is our true story. When I think about it, it feels like I’m reading a story that is not my own. 

But it is true. And she is still my heartbeat.

And, though a young and unexpected pregnancy came with years of struggle and heartache, it also came with more joy and love than I could have ever dreamed of experiencing. 

Our life is so very different than it was. We still have struggles, but they’re nothing in comparison to the ones we faced a decade ago. 

Our AnnMarie is still our heart’s delight. She is bright and beautiful, funny and witty. She knows more weird facts than she should. She is prayerful and honest. She is strong but gentle, and the perfect older sister to her younger siblings. She is a teacher and a listener. She is a nurturer and a goofball. She loves her dad and I more than we could ever deserve. And she is our number one. She saved my life. More than once. And to think I thought having a baby would end it. 

I’m grateful. 

I’m grateful that God trusted us enough to know that even we, a couple of screw-ups, would grow into loving and hardworking parents. I’m grateful that He gave us the responsibility of raising such an amazing and talented little girl. 

I’m grateful that my parents did what parents are supposed to do – and loved us. They didn’t take me to a clinic so they wouldn’t have to deal with a kid or to cover up the shame my mistakes would mean to them, or to make my life "easier." They loved me, and that's what made it easier. 

I’m grateful that, even though it took years, Geoff and I were able to grow up and become the parents God intended us to be... and that we make a really, really good family.

More than anything, I’m grateful that our number one came at a time that was so terribly perfect.

I love you, booger. You will never, ever be able to comprehend just how good you made us. 

Be good family.
And never underestimate the joy and love and utter happiness that can come from the most unexpected and seemingly devastating surprises. 

Cheerio.
Jessica