Signed, Somebody Baby Momma: A Short Narrative by Max Reddick

Sorry, I’m late today. I got caught up trying to repair a server. Anyway, I thought I’d go off the script for day 3 of Relationship Week and leave you with a narrative. This is something else from when I was at home last month, but I thought it was too long to post, but I’ll drop it off today. Let me know what you think.

I don’t like that term, Baby Momma. To me it just seems so negative, so final. It’s like that’s all I will ever be, somebody Baby Momma. But somehow I guess that fits me now.

I asked Max to write this down for me, so I could read it back to see if it sounds as absolutely crazy as I think it does. I’ve known Max for a long time, from way back in the day. He was always writing these silly little poems and letters to all the little girls in the hood. And those silly little tricks used to fall for it too. But I never did. I guess that’s why we have remained friends for so long.

But I right now, I just need to get this out. You know, I want to talk to my friends about it, but I’m so afraid of what they will say. In fact, I already know what they will say. And I certainly cannot take this to my mother and sisters. I have heard it all from them before.

But I just need someone to listen, just listen for a second and not talk back. Not render judgment. And ladies, you know how judgmental we can be.

I met him my freshman year of college. He was a junior then. He was one of those what I call wonder men. You know what I am talking about ladies, one of those men you look at, and you just wonder. You wonder what he would look like with his clothes off. You wonder how it would feel with his hands wrapped around you, embracing you, holding you, kissing you, making love to you.

Let me take a second and tell you about him.

He was very tall; he was built like an athlete, but he had the mind of a scholar. Now I know every black person and they momma are always talking about having some Indian in them, but you could see his Indian heritage in his countenance. Both heritages, in fact, were very much in evidence. His skin was jet black, so black that sometimes when the sun would fall on it just right, he appeared purple. But his features were decidedly Indian, and he had the finest, straightest jet black hair. It is as if his hair didn’t fit him. And I used to just admire his long, straight black fingers and wonder what they would feel like on my body.

And then my wondering became an obsession. I began putting myself into his path just so he would notice me. And one day he finally did. We quickly became friends. And almost just as quickly, we became friends with benefits.

You know, I think that’s where I made my first mistake. I never took the time to define our relationship with him. He just came and went out of my life. Sometimes I wouldn’t see him for days. And during these times I would become upset and jealous. I would curse him, and I would curse myself. But other times he would be with me all day, every day. And all night.

And he would always seem to know just what my body needed. Sometimes he would make love to me slowly, almost methodically. Other times, our love making took a faster, more frenzied pace, as if we were angry at one another. As if we were trying to take out all our anger, all our frustrations, on the other’s body. But in the end, I was never left wanting. I was never left unsatisfied.

He graduated a while before I did, but he went to law school in a city not too far away, so I saw him from time to time on weekends, during holidays, and at other times when he would just show up out of the blue.

I found out I was pregnant a month or two into my senior year. I found out he had gone out and gotten married about a month or two before I painfully walked across the stage to receive my diploma, nauseous with my ankles badly swollen. My soror, who came back for the graduation, delivered the bad news.

And perhaps to spite him, or perhaps to soothe my wounded ego, I got married just as my child started walking. And my new husband was a good man. I should have loved him, but I didn’t. And I didn’t do much to hide the fact that I really didn’t love him, either. To his credit, he hung in there as long as he could before he finally decided that it would be best that he moved on.

Since then, I have been in and out of relationships. More times I have been out as opposed to in though. I guess I’m probably one of those women always complaining about not having a man. But when I get one, I just get quickly get bored with them and eventually run them away.

As for my child’s father, he took good care of her financially, but emotionally he treated her just as he had treated me. There would be times in which she heard from him very often. She spent some summers, weekends, and holidays with him. Often she accompanied him and his wife on vacations. In fact, he took her all over the world with him.

But other times we would not hear from him for months. Not a phone call. Not a letter. Nothing. But nevertheless, my daughter absolutely adores her father. You know how girls are about their fathers. In her eyes, he can do no wrong.

But here’s where it the whole thing gets a little tricky.

A few months back he showed up back in town without an explanation and without his wife. And when I found out his wife was not with him, I began to fix myself up. I went out and bought me a whole new wardrobe. Everything, underwear included. New panties. New bras. The whole nine.

And the whole time I’m cleaning out the mall, the whole time I’m maxing out my credit cards, I’m trying to convince myself that it wasn’t for him. But one day after about my third trip to Victoria’s Secret in a week, the salesclerk just looked at me smiled and asked me, “New man?”

He began to spend a lot of time with his daughter, taking her places, buying her things. And of course she was in heaven. Then he began to include me. So, the three of us would be out about town together frequently. It was almost as if we were a family. I remember this little white lady at the Memphis in May festival even commenting on how beautiful we all looked together as a family. And my child’s father didn’t miss a beat. He put his arm around both of us, looked each of us in our eyes, and replied, “Yes, we certainly do.” And now I was in heaven.

But in the evenings when he would drop us off, he never asked to stay. He never once asked me if he could spend the night. And he wouldn’t even have had to ask. All he would have had to do was to come in, take his shoes off, and as far as I was concerned, he would have been at home.

Then, one day about a week or so ago, he asked me to go on a short, day trip with him. Just so we could talk, he said. Just so we could spend a little time together, he said. Just so we could get to know one another again. And my heart leapt.

But when we set off on our little excursion, it began to rain. And by the time we arrived at our destination, it was pouring. So he stopped and got us a room at a bed and breakfast to wait out the rain. It was one of those old Southern antebellum style mansions.

And I want you to take a second to picture this. It was a beautifully appointed room with this huge four poster bed facing French doors which led out to a portico with an absolutely beautiful view of the grounds.

When we arrived, he opened the French doors leading out to the balcony and together we lay on the bed next to one another, not touching, not talking, just watching the rain as it fell on the floor of the ancient portico. Before long he put his arm around me, and I snuggled up against his chest. All the while, I could hear the sound of the rain as it fell, and I could smell its intoxicating…

Wait a minute, Max. Don’t use that. That word. Intoxicating. It sounds so cliché-ish. What’s a better word? Well, go ahead and use it. This whole thing probably sounds cliché-ish by now. This whole thing probably sounds so familiar.

But anyway, I could hear the sound of the rain, and I could smell its delicate scent as it mixed with his cologne and the smell of whatever dressing he used on his hair. And I became aroused. Very aroused. I began to kiss him on his neck, behind his ear. I kissed him on his forehead. I kissed his beautiful black hair. I tried to kiss every inch of his face until I finally found his mouth.

But then he just pushed me away.

He placed his hands on either side of my face, looked me in my eyes, and for the first time ever he did something I thought he’d never do in our lifetimes. He told me, “I love you. I really love you.” I think I saw tears in his eyes. But then he just lay back down and before long he fell asleep. And I lay my head back on his chest. And that is how we spent the afternoon until the rain finally subsided.

And as we lay there I thought to myself how perfect it all seemed. How perhaps many a little teenage girl, many a woman might dream of an afternoon like this. But here I lay with a married man who for whatever reason would not consummate our afternoon together and who was still someone else’s husband. And all I was was somebody Baby Momma.

And as he snoozed, I looked at him lying there and wondered. After all these years, he still has me wondering.

What could she possibly be wondering about? Have you ever been in a relationship that made you wonder? Do you wonder now?

And please come back tomorrow when we will discuss interracial relationships. Von, if you stop by, I’ll need your help on this inter-racial relationship thing.