His hair is falling out. I said I'd never give him a mohawk, that baby mohawks are for the spawn of suburban bropunks. So of course his hair is falling out in the shape of... a mohawk.
I'm sort of thinking about thinking about dating again. I learned a lot from my last relationship and I know I've got to be super aware of the role any future partners of mine are going to play in the kid's life. What will someone show my son about masculinity, femininity, and gender roles? Responsibility? Respecting women? Respecting oneself?
Would I want my kid to grow up to be like this person?
We're at a restaurant, in a booth in the corner. The beast lies on the slick vinyl, his stubby little legs bicycling in the air, pedaling madly toward the blinking Christmas lights that hang overhead. I sit next to him, one arm bent akimbo in front of his body to keep him from wriggling off the seat and onto the sticky floor below. My other arm claws desperately at my food, stuffing chunks of meat into my mouth, huge wedges of naan, clumps of rice, frantic, shoveling, trying to fill the gaping maw that is my tired, aching body. My dining partner calls me a feral mama. I feel it.