Dear First Child,
  I tell people that I want to be a writer when I grow up. A writer that sits around all day in their PJ's. And maybe that's what I should've done that night but I'm glad I didn't.
  So maybe I had a little too much  to drink, and maybe I was playing the desperate card with a guy I didn't even know,  and maybe my dress was a little too short  which made it look like I was asking for it. But I didn't want it....I wasn't asking for it.
  But what he did to me will always be a reminder to never be weak. Embarrassed I told my mom that I was messing around with one of my guy friends and he now wanted nothing to do with me or you.
  I carried you with me for nine months. I saw you as a burden but the night when you decided it was time to say hello to the world. And I was screaming helplessly in the bathtub. And I was hoping that 911 would come quicker because I didn't know what I was doing. And wished that I could've drove to the hospital but I was only a stupid fifteen year old.
  By the time we arrived to the hospital they had to perform a C section to get you out. But you didn't make it. You didn't have enough oxygen and if I could give you my last breathe I would. Because I needed you as much as you needed me. I would've loved you more than you could ever imagine. Because although you were a burden to me you were my burden.
  Now when people ask me what I want to be when I grow up I tell them I want to be a writer, but I so desperately want to tell them all I really want to be is a mother...because of you.