Pause for a moment-because, as you know, my whole premise for my blog, its title (Other Side of the Fame), and the look of the title (turned backwards) illustrates my premise: Which is not to just talk about the rich and famous, but where I can, when I can [through them] if there is a subject matter by which I can either shed light on, or provoke thought and contemplation-I will. This write up is one such blog.
I’m not judging her. I’m here to tell you. I was a “teen mom” myself. MY teen mom ratchet stories could probably give Farrah and the rest of the girls of MTV’s “16 & Pregnant” and VH1’s “Teen Mom” a run for their money-I promise you this. I’m an adult now, so I can speak on it (although with an iron fist) but with a delicate hand of understanding as well-but too, with no holds barred.
And even within one of my fiction-drama biographical books’ prequel/sequel/final “Angie Situation” series; one of THE MANY dynamics of my main character/protagonist is that she is a teen mom… so I’m VERY aware of teen mom issues and the stressors of trying to live life like and with your peers-I know exactly what that is like-trust me on that.
This is real, a real baby-straight from this Anne Geddes card that I ran across one day into the years-I bought it an kept it. It reminded me of my baby. My child was just like that after being all cleaned up and incubated-little enough to fit in the palm of an adult.
Although this witty, charming, funny, beautiful carmelicious cleared-grey eyed fat juicy luciousness ended up having ten fingers tend toes, fingernails, a pair of testicles and a penis-when he first said hello to this world: none of that was fully developed.
Not only was I a teen mom myself to a child born out of wedlock, my child was considered a “miracle baby” because of being born at five months gestation and delivered emergency cesarean at 1lb 13oz. and 12in. News channels heard about it and wanted my story and I did have one heaven of a story to tell-but because I wasn’t married and too because of the religious beliefs of the hospital where my child was born-they wouldn’t allow my child’s story to be told. But although times are a lot different now (especially over the past ten/fifteen years and girls are choosing to subscribe to jump over into Easystreet Strumpetville), what baffles me here-with Farrah…are two things:
