Hoops or studs? Hoops or studs? I repeat the question internally as I stand in front of my vanity holding one earring up to my ear before swapping it for the other. Good Lord, it’s not like it matters. It’s not like my earrings will make or break this date.

This date I’m already reluctant to go on. Because I already know exactly where it’s going…

Nowhere.

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 have ever met 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 a duh look 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 perfect I’m interested, but don’t put out on the first date dress.

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.”

“You do,” 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 said does Tater Tot. When you refer to yourself, you say do. 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.

The oomph sound 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.

He wastes no time grilling me. “So, who’s the lucky loser tonight?”

“He’s not a loser. His name’s Kevin, and he’s twenty-nine and works in accounting.”

Nate scoffs. “Total loser. Bet he still lives at home too.”

I roll my eyes. “He does not. His profile says he lives in the suburbs just outside of Bay Ridge.”

“Suburbs totally equals his mom’s basement.”

“You dipshit, we live in South Alabama. We don’t have basements.”

Nate holds up his index finger and tips it my way. “False. They aren’t common here, but they exist.”

“Whatever. Your argument’s weak, and you know it.”

“Your argument’s weak,” he whines, attempting to mimic me in that annoying way only a sibling can do.

“Mama! Mama! I did the poops!”

The toilet flushes as I walk down the hall toward the bathroom. “You did?” I ask enthusiastically, clapping my hands.

Honest to God, if someone would’ve told my seventeen-year-old self that I would be this excited over poop in a few years, I would have laughed in their face—and I mean laughed hard.

“I did! And I wiped my butt too!”

I widen my eyes and give a little gasp. “Well, aren’t you just all grown? You know what this means right?” Tatum shakes her head. “It means…dance party!”

My little girl squeals and immediately we begin jumping around, waving our arms and stomping our feet. No doubt, we look nuts—but potty training this kid was tantamount to making water flow uphill. So, this is absolutely a dance-party-worthy feat.

At the sound of our commotion, Nate ventures back to the hallway, where we’re shaking what our mama gave us. Ever the doting uncle, he doesn’t come empty-handed. No, sir. He’s armed with a glass of chocolate milk topped with whipped cream and a swirly straw.

Tatum looks up at him, all doe-eyed, batting her lashes. “Dat’s for me?”

“Sure is. A little bird told me you’re using the potty like an old pro!”

“It’s true! I am!”

She reaches for the beverage, but I stop her. “Not so fast, Tater Tot. You gotta wash your hands first!”

Once she’s as germ-free as a three-year-old can be, we retreat to the living room, where she instantly snuggles up to my brother on the couch. “We watch Poppy?” she asks, reaching for her chocolate milk.

“Poppy?” he asks. “Oh! You mean those things with the hair!”

“Trolls,” I inform him through a laugh.

“Yeah. That.”

“It’s on Netflix,” I tell him, scooping up my purse from the table by the door. “Y’all have fun. I won’t be late—call me if you need me.” I walk over and press a kiss to Tatum’s whipped-cream-sticky cheek.

Nate’s voice stops me right as I’m about to step over the threshold. “Same goes for you. Call me if you need me.”