Page 5 of Best Laid Plans

I mean, Kevin’s a catch—good-looking, employed, and gentlemanly to boot. But, they all seem that way at first. They all seem charming and attentive and interested until I drop the whole single-mom bomb on them.

Then they run weeping with their tails tucked. Typically, after some variation of:You’re a mom? But you’re so young…but you’re so hot, and so on and so forth. Because apparently being old and dowdy is a prerequisite to childbirth.

For real, the fastest way to ruin a first date is to mention your kid. But, I still do, because I have nothing to hide. And anyone who tucks tail and runs at the mention of my girl isn’t the man for me.

And before you think I’m some psycho out shopping for a father figure for my daughter, let me set the record straight.

While none of the men I’ve dated haveevermet Tatum, much less seen her picture, I’m always upfront about her existence. Chemistry only goes so far, and at the end of the day, she comes first…even if that means the only action Mama gets is of the solo, battery-operated variety.

I finally settle on the hoops when I feel my rambunctious toddler rake her nails down my belly. “Rawr!” she yells as loud as she can. “Raaaawwwrrr!”

I pull my robe tighter and retie the knot, effectively blocking her access. “Whatcha doin’ Tater Tot?”

“I’s bein’ the tiger that scratched you all up.”

“The tiger? What tiger?”

“The one dat gave you all those marks on your tummy,” she says, giving me aduhlook that’s far beyond her three years.

Ah. That tiger.

“Those are called stretch marks. When you were in my belly, my skin had to stretch to make room for you.”

“See!” she squeals excitedly. “I the tiger!”

I run a hand through her messy curls—the exact same russet color as her father’s. “You sure are.” She follows me like a pint-sized shadow as I shuffle away from my vanity and into my closet. “Are you excited to hang out with Uncle Nate tonight?”

Like I flipped a switch, she begins jumping up and down, like a demented kangaroo. “Unc-ah Naaaaaate!”

“That’s right, Tater Tot. He’ll be here in about ten minutes. Why don’t you go pick out a few toys to show him?”

With a yell worthy of a battle-cry, she darts out of my closet, presumably toward her bedroom. I soak in the peace and quiet for a beat—don’t you judge me, I love the kid, with all of my damn heart, but she is loud—before flipping through the hangers in search of my favorite navy blue wrap dress. It’s lowcut and clings in all the right places while still being modest—the perfectI’m interested, but don’t put out on the first datedress.

Once it’s on, I slide my feet into a pair of champagne espadrille wedges that make my calves look amazing while still being comfy. I assess myself in the mirror and smile—I’m no supermodel, but it’ll do. I spritz myself with my perfume, slick a coat of shiny pink gloss across my lips and smile.It’ll definitely do.

I can hear Tatum in the living room, and when I enter the room, it’s all I can do to stifle a laugh. She has somehow managed to lug her tea set from her room, along with her Barbie castle, a plethora of stuffed animals, and four feather boas. “Wow, looks like you have big plans for Uncle Nate.”

“Yes, Mama.” She nods solemnly. “I does.”

“Youdo,” I correct her gently.

“Dat’s what I said.” She crosses her arms over her chest.

I squat down so that we’re eye to eye. “You saiddoesTater Tot. When you refer to yourself, you saydo.Does that make sense?”

She tilts her head to the right, thinking before replying—which is so like my girl. It’s something else to watch her think through things. “I fink so.”

I’m about to haul myself back to standing when there’s a hard knock on the front door, followed by the sound of it opening. “Where’s my girl?” my brother hollers as he steps into the room, and Tatum rushes to him, knocking me flat on my ass.

Theoomphsound I make causes both of them to look my way. My brother tries to hide his smile, the faint laugh lines around his eyes give him away.

“Mama! Did I…do…that?” We both smile at her use of the word.

“It was an accident, baby girl. No worries,” I say, soothing away any worries she may have had. Nate extends a hand down toward me and helps me up.

The second I’m steady on my feet, Tatum grabs the hem of my dress. “Mama! I gotsta potty!”

“Then go, Tater Tot! Call me if you need help.” Like a flash, she takes off down the hall to the spare bathroom, leaving Nate and me alone.

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