I like to believe I come from a long line of strong females. Independent, fierce, and inevitably stubborn—stop thinking that’s a bad thing. My mother radiates all of these qualities, and for Taylor’s sake, she doesn’t have a choice. In a room full of doctors and nurses strongly suggesting to follow a certain path of care, she will stick to her guns and order them to do as her gut tells her. Oddly enough, it is when she doesn’t follow her gut that trouble arises and Taylor declines. Those nurses at the University of Michigan who have previously cared for Taylor, know the routine and respect her wishes, while those who are new will be forewarned before entering into the room. With 40-some medications on his allergy list, many of the nurses will double check with her before administering the drug. On multiple occasions, the pharmacy has disbursed the wrong medication, or one containing dyes (he’s strongly allergic to all dyes), and the nurse will have to return for the proper drug. My mother doesn’t sleep on these overnight trips to the hospital, living off the makeshift bed in the room and once spending over three months in the hospital. When Taylor is admitted, she doesn’t leave. But it’s not like she gets any better sleep at home.

With routine meds taken every three to four hours, along with the constant disruption from getting up to suction out Taylor’s lungs, its no wonder the only full night’s sleep she gets is on vacation. Her last vacation was a few days trip to Boston. Three nights of freedom from being woken up to a dozen times in the night. Three nights out of 365. And you thought the newborn baby routine is difficult. Naps are out of the question. Fed through a g-tube with the use of a food pump, twice a day, the machine likes to disrupt any peace by beeping and demanding to be reset. And let’s not forget them seizures, the sucking of the lungs, the repositioning in bed…

My mother is a real-life zombie.

Or so you would expect her to be. Surprisingly, she’s not most days. Lord knows I would be. Nineteen years of no good sleep, I’d be begging for eternal sleep at that rate. That’s a torture technique: waking up the victim just as they fall asleep or just after negatively impacts the mind. It harms the senses and blurs reality. Imagine: tortured in your own home by a lifestyle you wouldn’t dare change because the only other option is to neglect your child. Makes you feel a little bit better about that once a week, maybe, 4:00 A.M. wakeup call after only three hours of sleep I bet.

I grew up living with my grandmother during childhood. For years, as the head ER nurse, she worked long, strenuous hours to provide for her family. Now, retired, she resides on a farm doing the work she once did as a child. She’s a working machine who, like her daughter, doesn’t know rest. Yet, somehow, I always mistake her age because lord knows she still looks to be only in her sixties to me. She’s not, definitely not. I’m blessed with good genes in the family, thank you.

Evelynn wasn’t an expected pregnancy. She took me by quite the surprise. I’m not the most nurturing person on the planet. While I often babysat during my teenage years, I don’t handle tears well and I run from discussions regarding….feelings. That’s never been my strong suit for conversation topics. But I was excited to be a mom. Scared, most definitely. But I was full of excitement that bubbled energetically beneath my skin. It amazed me people couldn’t tell, how they would ask me if I was okay with it rather than congratulate me. Or worse, ask me if I was keeping it, as if they didn’t expect me to want her. (Scroll down the blog to a few posts before for my thoughts on abortion and why I’m pro-choice.) I’ll admit, I’m one to rarely show excitement over anything; even a trip to Florida won’t have me squealing in glee like a twelve-year-old girl at a One Direction concert.

It’s not a secret that I moved in with my parents during my pregnancy, mostly because I was jobless shortly after the first trimester ended and then increasingly because the pregnancy proved to be a difficult one. However, many people wrongly assume that because I live with my parents, and am juggling work and school, that I don’t provide for primary care. It’s like any other family situation, but as a single parent, I’m extremely lucky to have parents, a stay-at-home mom, who is more than willing and happy to provide for free daycare. And why wouldn’t I want Evelynn to be watched by her own family instead of paying a facility when I’m against daycare?

People often talk behind backs and closed doors. I’d like to use the human nature excuse but we all know its not human decency. When I broke it off with Evelynn’s father, I was the target for judgment. But nobody was willing to ask why or if I was okay with it then. I was relieved and thrilled, and for that I am labeled the selfish bitch. I’ll shoulder it and continue to, because it was best, for me and for my daughter. I set out to set an example of never settling, in career, in love, in life. And I intend to do that. I’m already doing that. And with great female role models growing up, I’m not worried about doing wrong.

My daughter eats healthier than most adults I know—for that I’ve been told I’m not letting her be a child. If I don’t comment on the preservatives and dyes and artificials you feed your child, please refrain from the healthy nature I’m instilling in my child. Besides, she likes and eats the food I give her. I changed her pediatrician because we got in arguments over Evelynn’s water consumption—they wanted me to cut back in order for her to eat more while I wasn’t willing to do so when she looked fine, they were more concerned with the numbers on a scale and how she matched up with other babies her age. News flash: she was born small and society’s average baby build is consistently getting bigger. I only breastfed for a few months—my milk supply diminished on its own. I shouldn’t have to defend myself on this topic yet people always asked, “Are you breastfeeding?” and followed it with, “Well, you should try to hold out at least a year.” I’ve no comment. No response on this would be deemed “acceptably nice.” The best is when I’m told I need to date for a father figure in Evelynn’s life. She sees her dad once a week most weeks, and she has her papa for a male role model. Thank you. Besides, haven’t you heard? I’m supermom.

Here’s to the two women who have repeatedly proved stubborn is one of the best traits a mom can be. Go ahead and call me stubborn, I’ll gladly take it as a compliment.