Page 143 of Small Town Firsts

CHAPTER 7

NATALIE

In the weekfollowing my non-date with Kevin-Phil, I’ve decided to call it quits. I’m hanging up my dating hat—and by that, I mean deleting my online profile. I waffled on the decision, but a girl can only stand so many bad dates.

But you know what? I’m okay with that. Truly, I am. Any of the potential suitors I might have met on there would have been nothing more than a stand-in for the only man who’s ever made my heart race.

For a while, I convinced myself that I didn’t want passion and belly flutters—I fooled myself into believing lukewarm was the way to go…but I know that isn’t true.

Deep down, if it isn’t red hot and consuming, I’m not interested. Though, I’m pretty sure that kind of love only comes around once in a lifetime, and if that’s the case, that’s just fine too, because I’ll always have my Tater Tot. Which is fine by me, because she’s all the best parts of him anyway.

“Mama!” I hear, followed by the sound of Tatum’s little feet stomping down the hall toward my room. “Mama! Wake up! It’s Us Day!” Tatum barrels into my room and up onto my bed where she burrows down under the covers next to me. “You up?”

“I’m up! Are you ready for our big day?” I ask, already knowing her answer.

On the third Saturday of every month, I’m off. Guaranteed, no matter what—and on that day, Tatum and I have an Us Day where we spend the entire day together, uninterrupted, doing whatever we damn well please.

“We’s have waffles?”

“We can absolutely have waffles. And maybe then we can go to the park.”

Tatum nods her head furiously. “And to lunch and for ice cream and for shopping and for?—”

I gently dig the tips of my fingers into her ribs, tickling her. “Slow your roll, Tater Tot. Let’s tackle today one step at a time, okay?”

“Okay, Mama,” she replies through peals of laughter.

Tatum begs and pleads to help with the batter, and as usual when letting a three-year-old work in the kitchen, more ends up on the counter and the floor than in the waffle maker. All the same, we end up with four perfect, fluffy waffles that we top with whipped cream, strawberries, and sweet, sticky syrup.

I send my little girl to wash her hands and brush her teeth while I quickly clean up the kitchen. Once I’m finished, I lay out her clothes before quickly working through my morning routine of washing my face, brushing my teeth and tossing my hair up into a messy-mom-bun—I call it a mom bun because it soisn’tone of those cute buns you see girls on Instagram and Pinterest rocking—before throwing on a pair of drawstring linen shorts and a loose-fitting tank.

We exit our bedrooms simultaneously, only Tatum is not dressed in the outfit I laid out for her. Nope. Not by a long shot. My little girl is decked out in her frilliest dress-up dress, rain boots, and a tiara—with a smear of pink, glittery lipstick from cheek to cheek to finish her look.

“Don’t I wook like a pwincess, Mama?”

“You absolutely do.” I do my best to stifle my grin. I swear, this kid…she marches to the beat of her own bongo—because Lord knows, a drum would be too basic. “But do you really want to risk getting your royally beautiful outfit all dirty?”

Tatum taps her chin thoughtfully. “I guess not.” Her little shoulders slump.

“I’ll tell you what, you go change into the outfit I laid out for you. You can still wear your rain boots, and I’ll do your hair up all prettywithyour tiara. Bonus points if you wipe off the lipstick.”

“But Mama! It’ssooooopretty!”

“You’re right, it is very pretty. But I think I have a color that would match better, okay?” She nods and dashes back to her bedroom, and I do the same, in search of my barely pink lip gloss.

We once again meet in the hall. “Dis better?” she asks, pouting slightly.

“Much better. C’mon and I’ll braid your hair.”

Tatum bounces on her toes. “Like Elsa?”

“Yup, just like Elsa.”

Ten minutes later, Tatum is admiring her braid in the little entryway mirror. Finally, after checking it from every possible angle, she shoots me a thumbs-up and what I can only assume is a wink. It’s all I can do to suppress a laugh, because the expression on her face makes her look like a hokey used-car salesman you’d see on a billboard somewhere.

We decideto take advantage of the good weather and walk to the park. Well, I walk. Tatum gallops, hops, and twirls her way downthe sidewalk. Her enthusiasm garners us a few stares, coupled with friendly waves from others milling about outside. Being the little ham she is, Tatum eats up the attention.

At the park, Tatum goes straight for the big slide, climbing the rungs of the ladder fearlessly, and then launching herself down the chute.My sweet, brave girl.After about ten minutes, she tires of the slide and sets off for the merry-go-round.

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