Karen vanBarneveld, 2017 (Updated 2025)
In the winter of 1969, in a small desert town of Southern California, I gave birth to my daughter. I had celebrated my sixteenth birthday on August 1st of that year with some of my high school friends, and as far as I and my parents were concerned, my child would be given up for adoption. In those years, the law stated that your parents could decide whether or not their minor aged children could keep their own children. This was my second pregnancy, the first having been terminated, and although my parents were not onboard with me keeping my child, I wanted her. I had long since broken any contact with the child’s father, and had no intentions of keeping him in my, or the child’s life, as he was an addict already at 18 years young. I had broken off our relationship after he asked me to tie his arm off while he shot heroin.
My parents had separated and I lived with my mother and younger sibling. I had watched for many years as my family broke apart at its core, my two older sisters and brother already having gone their own ways in their late teens. Maybe it was a need for my own little person to love and be with that subconsciously brought me to become pregnant a second time. I always blamed my father for not being around much. It was easier than looking into my own young heart and soul, finding whatever lacked there. I’ve long since forgiven him for any conceived wrong doings as a parent.
My mother and family doctor had already found suitable parents through whatever avenues were used at that time, and they were at the hospital, waiting for the child to be born. In those days, we had no ultrasound to determine what the sex of the child would be, but this couple didn’t care.
I remember my labor being intensive, but relatively short, given I was a month late. After four hours, my daughter was born, at nine pounds, four ounces. While giving birth, they had draped a sheet across my abdomen so that I couldn’t see the infant or know the sex. I remember crying when she cried, after being slapped on her little bottom. I knew then that I would never see this little child I had held so close to me for almost a year. It broke my heart.
After I was taken to my hospital room, no sleep would come, only thoughts about my baby, their baby now. After a few hours, my mother came into my room to see how I was. She told me that she had gone to see the baby, and how beautiful “it” was. She then told me that if I wanted, I could keep the child, but with conditions. I would have to finish high school, then go to work to support us both. My immediate reaction was an unequivocal yes.
I should have known that after having five babies of her own, she couldn’t bear the thought of giving away any of her progeny. My child was indeed a beautiful one, already being a month old out of the womb.
I could say now that the rest is history, given that my daughter is now in her early fifty’s and has her own grandchildren. But it’s never that simple. Throughout my daughter’s young years, being the child of a child was not easy for her. I still had my penchant for needing the attentions of men, due to my own self-loathing. A consequence of that was hiring a lot of babysitters, while I was out doing God knows what. Well, I know what, but that’s not part of this story. I was also a recreational drug user. I thought that cocaine and alcohol were more socially acceptable, if I kept my job, paid my bills and put food on the table. I stopped all that nonsense after realizing the havoc I was wreaking, around the age of 32.
Although I did fulfill my obligation to finish high school and work, I did not fulfill my own, tacit obligations as a parent to the best of my abilities. I loved her more than I loved myself, which is not a good way to start parenting. I have learned over the second half of my life that I needed to love myself more, so I could know that self-actualization, and have the capacity to share that with her during her seminal years. It’s difficult to say whether a child of sixteen has the capability and experience to understand themselves well enough to become a good parent. While I now feel that my decision to keep her was a selfish one, not considering how I was going to properly care for her, I would not change that decision. However, I would not advise others to duplicate this path.
Over the last thirty-one years I have taken responsibility for my deficiencies as a parent and mother, apologizing profusely, and sought to guide and help her as much as humanly possible. Having been through so many hardships together, we are as close as any mother and daughter could be, maybe even more. We have a mutual love, respect, admiration, acceptance and reverence for each other, and ourselves, that we might not have come to, under what is considered to be normal circumstances.
I cannot even imagine what my life would have been like, had I not made that decision almost fifty-56 years ago. I have had the fullness, and richness of a life lived outside the lines, learning every step on my path how to love myself for all my limitations and flaws, as well as my generosity and compassion. I now understand the importance of sharing our nascent gifts with those around us. As we are given these gifts, unique to us, it is our responsibility to contribute those to our families and communities. Mine has been a life well lived and continues to be well learned.
