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They said that motherhood was the hardest job in the world.
I was beginning to believe them.
Too bad for me I didn’t have nine months to prepare myself.
Nope, one day I was single, the next I was a mom.
How the fuck did mothers do this shit without pulling their hair out?!
“Kid, I’ve got a couple grand in my account. It’s yours if you stop crying.”
Charlie wailed louder.
“Okay, money won’t work. You got morals. I can accept that.”
Pacing back and forth across my living room, I bounced, swayed, and swaddled my little man. Anything to stop his incessant crying.
Nothing I did worked.
Walking over to my stereo system, I turned it on, hitting the play button. The sounds of Pink’s ‘Fuckin’ Perfect’ started playing.
Funny. I thought it, well... perfect.
My life’s anthem all rolled into one fucking absolutely fantastic song.
Moving to the beat, I hummed along with the lyrics while the music washed over me.
If there was ever a time I needed to hear the truth, it was now because I must be fucking crazy to think I could do this. Maybe the CPS bitch was right. Maybe I wasn’t ready to be a mom.
Yet, the second I looked at his pinched face, I knew there was no fucking way I could give him up. The state of Virginia may not be sure of my motherhood prowess, and I may be second-guessing myself too, but deep in my heart, I knew Charlie belonged with me.
“Come on, kid. You gotta help me out here.”
I was a damn doctor for crying out loud.
I could figure this out.
Laying my screaming bundle of happiness on the couch, I narrowed my eyes. “Alright, Charlie. The doctor is in. Let’s figure this shit out.”
Thirty minutes later, I stood before the crying infant scratching my head. He had no fever. No ear infection. He was too damn young for teething. He had a clean diaper, wasn’t hungry, and had no rashes, boils or lesions to indicate something nefarious.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
Poor kid was in a state. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he needed a fucking valium and a weekly appointment with a trained therapist.
Picking him up, I cradled him close when I spotted someone pulling into my driveway.
“Swear to God, Charlie, I don’t care if it’s Michael Myers coming to kill us both, as long as he makes you stop crying.”
Heading over to the front door, I flung it open only to come face-to-face with Frank.
The Frank.
My Frank.
The one I fucked liked a professional bull rider at the rodeo.
“What are you doing here?” I said a little too harshly and Charlie wailed louder, his cries now grating on my frazzled nerves. I didn’t have time to deal with anything else.
