25 Years of Alexander Dante Waltonen

Me, in my senior year of high school (92-93):

In the Fall, I unexpectedly started growing this:

The first time I felt him kick, I was getting an award, but I couldn’t tell anyone there about his achievement, since he was still a secret:

When I did finally tell people, in my third trimester, one of my friend’s moms threw me a shower:

He was born after graduation, 6 days before I turned 18.

The nurses told me it was weird that he furrowed his brows. “He’s got a lot to think about,” I said. “The other babies don’t do that.” “Mine does.”

I didn’t have much of anything for him. Or anyplace to go, until my (grand)daddy came for us. The other mother who shared my hospital room gave us her second car seat, so we could leave the hospital legally.

This is him, with his great-great grandmother, Bessie:

This is him, unhappy because we let the swing stop:

Despite our difficulties, we managed to be okay, almost always on our own. He didn’t know we were poor or unusual. When people would comment on how young I looked, he would patiently explain, “she was in high school when she had me!”

We have been together for 25 years. We built a good life in California, filled with friends and laughter and Simpsons and books and travel and Weird Al Yankovic and kittens. 

I love you more than anything. Here’s to the rest of our time together.