By Amanda Knox

I was twelve years old, still a kid, still being driven around by my mom to soccer practice. She had picked me up from the field that was thirty minutes away from our house, which meant a whole hour of her day was devoted just to ferrying me around. This was usual. Between Deanna and I and the three sports we each played—soccer, softball, and gymnastics—there was at least one practice or game to be ferried to every evening, more often two.

I sat in the front seat and both my mom and I were casually, comfortably quiet. I had kicked off my mud-caked cleats and rested my smelly soccer socks on the dash against the heater vents blasting hot air to thaw my half-frozen toes. I gazed out the window and was happy. Soccer meant a lot to me. Soccer made me part of a community, added a tangible dimension to my identity, offered me challenging but attainable goals and a healthy outlet for my energy.

I was happy. It occurred to me, because I was no a small child, that I was happy for a reason. It was because of my mom that I even had soccer practice, and softball practice, and gymnastics, and a ride home, and a home. All of these aspects of my life were there because my mom had made the effort for them to be there, for me, at her expense. I was happy because of her, because of the weight she carried on her shoulders. So I told her so. “Thank you for giving me a happy childhood,” I said, almost wistfully, still looking out the window.

Today I’m going on twenty-nine, that age when most of my friends and peers have made up their minds about procreation. Either it’s not happening, and they fantasize about the things they’ll do, the places they’ll see, the people they’ll meet, the works they’ll create with all that time, energy, and income. Or it’s happening, and they’re cultivating a nest in their heart that they know will eventually be filled. Either way, they’re taking steps to make it happen. They are partnering with people who are on their same side of the procreation decision, or else they are making peace with their partner making the decision for them, when they were still on the fence. They are saving up. They are making plans. They are thinking about growing old with their partners, just the two of them. The baby may not be on its way yet, but they imagine what it would look like with her eyes and his nose. Or here the baby is. Little John.

Those friends and peers of mine with new families more often than not met their partners in college. He from NYC, she from California, they hit it off at a house party and after nearly ten years of happiness and crisis, personal maturity and career growth, they survived. Their families flew in from NYC and California to see them married, then flew back out. They’re settled down, in a little house they’re renting or paying mortgage on, just the three of them, a family.

As a kid, I was aware of families like this, comprised of Mom, Dad, and kid. I had friends like that, who only saw their grandparents or cousins across the country over summer break or at Christmas time. If they even had grandparents or cousins. My own household was also rather intimate—for the majority of my youth it was just my mom, Deanna, and me. I witnessed how much of my mom’s time and energy was devoted to raising her daughters—helping us with our homework, reading to us, ferrying us to soccer practice. At the time I imagined becoming a mother like my own mother: single. I imagined being as intimately in touch with my own daughters, doing everything together. And I imagined that it would just work.

As an adult, I look on the families of just Mom and Dad and baby, and I don’t know how they do it. Even with two parents, they seem so alone.

At twelve I realized that my mom was there for me. At twenty-eight I realized that my mom was able to be there for me because her mom was there for her. Mom was able to ferry me to and from soccer practice because we were headed not for home, but to Oma’s house, where both Deanna, and a hot meal my mom needn’t prepare, were waiting.

Deanna and I may have grown up with a single mom, but it never felt that way. Both my dad and his second wife, and my maternal grandmother lived within walking distance. The rest of the family—aunts, uncles, and cousins on both sides—all lived within a 5-10 minute drive within West Seattle. There was never a moment when it was uncertain who was going to take care of us if Mom were ever tied up. We ate dinner at my grandmother’s house almost every day. My cousins were like the brothers I never had. Our babysitter was an aunt or an uncle, never a stranger.

I wish the best to those two parents who are able to be there for their children. I am in awe of them. At the same time, I don’t want to be so alone. I prefer a village of family and friends to help me care for and raise my children. I want to be a mom like my mom, like her mom.