When my mom was twenty, she went to Tijuana with my dad for a weekend of fun. A lot of this:

Led to this:

That led to this:

Well, not immediately, of course. Nope, this photo was taken fifteen years after the crazy night in Tijuiana, back when I humped and licked street lamps. Yes, this is me in the photo. Therefore, you can assume that it was me in that belly of mom’s.

As fun as humping and licking street lamps can be, I’m sure that’s not exactly what mom pictured me doing when she agonized in the two-day labor that eventually led to an emergency c-section to birth me. The c-section that was such an emergency that she had to be put asleep for it. Because she was twenty years old and I had been in her poor uterus for 45 weeks. Yes that’s right. Back when military hospitals patted you on the head at 40 weeks with their I’m-too-busy-to-help-you-out-when-it’s-so-clear-that-this-baby-will-come-when-it-wants-to-come smiles.

Poor mom.

Anyway, back to the story. Mom wasn’t alone in bringing me into this world. Good ol dad was there too! Dad was twenty-one and due to ship out on another tour of duty with the Navy, leaving mom and I stranded on Treasure Island for 8 months. I’ve always had the advantage to having parents close to my age, especially during my teenage angst. Mom has a Rolling Stones tattoo, dad has an earring. Dad listens to the same music as I do, mom snuck me sips from her alcoholic beverages as I was growing up. My parents were cool. Well, except for their tendencies to dress similar to one another:

(Dad, what were you thinking? Short-shorts? UHHHH….)

And mom’s obsession to dye her hair as light as possible without killing every single strand:

I grew up, for a few years at least, in California, on Treasure Island, while dad had tours on and off. My parents were both on the complete opposite side of the country from their families (New York and Florida) so they had to manage primarily on their own with me. I was a perfect baby (that later transitioned into a perfect adult, but that’s another blog post), so things were pretty swell.

You know how a lot of people say that they grow up immediately when they have a child? I don’t think that’s what happened with my parents. Being so young, I feel that they grew up with me. Realizing this fact at age five, I decided that I was going to be twenty years old (like mom!) when I started having babies. I was going to be happily married, of course, and I would have a natural bond with my children as I grew up with them. A natural bond other than the whole giving life to them thing. I don’t know why I was obsessed with having this timeline of being married and settled by twenty. My parents certainly didn’t pressure me whatsoever:

Dad: You know, you shouldn’t get married or have children until you’ve finished college, and are established in your desired career path. So forty years old would be a good starting point.

Mom: Don’t think about going to BYU for college! *in a serious, dramatic voice* You’ll NEVER EXPERIENCE A KEG PARTY IF YOU DO THAT! That’s what your twenties are for!
(Let me just interject that BYU was never a plan of mine in the first place.)

After my fifth birthday, things went dramatically wrong in the household. My mom moved out and my parents divorced. Around the time I was in fourth grade, mom up and moved to Florida. From Colorado. At a time when I was finally noticing why I didn’t have a boyfriend:

At age seven, I decided I wouldn’t marry someone I’d known a mere two weeks (like some people I know. Not to mention any names, *cough* MOM AND DAD *cough*) I always thought it was funny that statistics pegged children of parents who divorced as being more than likely to do it themselves. Call me crazy, but experiencing divorce first-hand (not to mention custody battles) can make a person VERY cautious about who they intend to take the plunge with. At least it did for me.

(To be continued. Because I’m lazy.)