Carly
IWAS GOING to be late for work.
It was six thirty-nine p.m., and my bartending shift started in twenty-one minutes. My apartment was six blocks from the Copper Penny, and I’d have to sprint like an Olympic hopeful to make it. Thankfully, the biker bar that I’d been working at for the past three months didn’t require its bartenders to wear high heels, and so far, nobody had commented about my frequent tardiness. Still, I needed to keep this job. Slipping my feet into running shoes, I shoved my cowboy boots into my backpack and zipped it up before returning to the kitchen to reengage in dinner negotiations with my five-year-old son.
“Take a bite, Trent,” I said in my best no-nonsense mom voice, sliding the plate he kept pushing away back in front of him.
He curled up his lip in disgust. “But you said I could have cereal for dinner since I didn’t get it for breakfast. You promised,” he complained. Again. We’d been over this so many times, even I wanted cereal for dinner.
“I know, but you forgot to remind me that we needed milk and we didn’t stop by the grocery store.”
“You didn’t tell me I was supposed to remind you. Or I would have. My memory is way better than yours.”
Reasonably certain my sweet little monster had siphoned away my brain cells during his trip down my birth canal, I had to agree. “Yes, Trent. You remembereverything.” Unfortunately. I shoved silver hoops through the holes in my ears and glanced at the clock again. Six forty-two.
“Like I remember you said I could have cereal for dinner,” my relentless little tyrant replied.
And we were back to square one. Truthfully, we’d never left square one. At this point, I wasn’t even sure there was a square two. I was sadly outmatched with no hope of ever winning… against a preschooler. This was my life, every damn day. Still, I could be almost as relentless as Trent, especially when I was desperate, so I kept trying. “You like chicken nuggets,” I pleaded, picking one up and dancing it toward his mouth.
“But you said—” His lips clamped down as soon as I reached them. Nugget, denied.
Frustrated, I tossed the nugget back onto his plate and pushed away from our small wooden table. “I know, Trent. I know.” And I’d failed him. Again. It was amazing how a simple act like forgetting milk could make me question my entire ability to parent.
“You’re still here?” our roommate, Jessica, asked as she stepped into the kitchen. “Go. I’ve got the little man.”
Jessica was a Godsend. I’d first called her from a hotel in Kennewick, Washington a little over three months ago, when I found her “roommate wanted” listing online during a mad dash to Seattle from my hometown of Silver City, Idaho. Jessica and I had agreed to meet up for coffee as soon as I made it into town to discuss the possibility of me and Trent invading her space. But, when my nineteen-ninety-seven Honda Civic with about a billion miles on it limped into Seattle’s city limits and promptly wheezed its last breath, I had nobody else to call for help. Thankfully, Jessica rescued me and Trent from the side of the freeway, stuffed the trunk of her car with our clothes, and took us home. Then she helped me call around until we found a donation center willing to tow my hooptie and take it off my hands.
Now she was doing me a huge favor by watching Trent in the evenings, so I didn’t have to pay a sitter. She was an angel, and there was no way I’d leave her to face the fiery wrath of a five-year-old who had been promised cereal.
“Mom forgot milk,” Trent blurted out, throwing me right under the bus.
“I have coconut milk,” she offered.
See? She’s an Angel. “Thanks, but he won’t drink it.” I knew from experience since I’d “borrowed” a little of her coconut milk last time we had this issue.
My problem wasn’t forgetfulness, it was time. Every day felt like a battle against the clock, and between my two jobs and taking care of Trent, I rarely managed to get in a full five hours of sleep. Squeezing in time to hit the grocery store was a luxury I couldn’t usually afford. Not to mention the little problem of no car to carry the groceries in. A gallon of milk got pretty damn heavy after four blocks, especially when I had to balance it with bags of groceries while keeping Trent close and making sure nobody snatched him. Trips to the grocery store gave me anxiety.
Another glance at the clock told me it was six-forty-eight. Time to tap into my single mom superpowers and get creative. I popped open the fridge and studied its contents, homing in on a pint of vanilla creamer. I shook it, estimating that there was maybe a half cup left.
Vanilla creamer had zero nutritional value and all sorts of harmful chemicals that the school’s mommy group would ostracize me for, but I was desperate. I added water to the container until it was roughly the consistency of two percent milk, and then dumped it over Trent’s granola. At least the granola was healthy. That wassomething, right? Smiling widely, like I’d made him some sort of treat rather than MacGyvering his dinner to atone for my failure as a mother, I offered it to him and held my breath.
Trent looked from me to the creamer container, eyeing us both skeptically. He took a small bite, chewed, and then smiled. “Thanks, Mom.”
How could two words be so powerful? They filled me with pride and love as I released my breath and bent to kiss his forehead. Maybe I wasn’t a complete parental failure after all. “You’re welcome.”
“This is yummy. You should let me have this milk all the time.”
Nope, I was a failure for sure.
“I don’t know whether to be appalled or impressed,” Jessica said, shaking her head.
“I have that effect on people.” I peppered the rest of Trent’s face with kisses, until he waved me off, and then I slipped the straps of my backpack over my shoulders. “I gotta get out of here. Trent, be good for Jess.”
He saluted me with his spoon. Smiling at his silly soldier impersonation, I waved and hurried out of the house, keeping an eye out for both the nutrition police and the mommy group.
***
The Copper Penny Bar and Grill always had at least one biker at the door checking IDs. Tonight’s burly, tattooed stud was a Hispanic guy who went by the name of Spade. All the bikers had nicknames, and since I kept to myself and didn’t mingle with the Dead Presidents, I hadn’t asked why. Truthfully, I didn’t even care why. I was in survival mode: blinders on, staying in my lane, minding my own damn business, and taking care of my son. I rarely even noticed how hot the bikers were.
