Kitty: Both worthy excuses if you ask me.

Me: …

Kitty: I guess I figured once you had a real reason you’d stop coming by and asking me out.

Me: So let me get this straight. You were willing to keep turning down awesome dates with me because you thought I’d ghost once I found out you had a kid?

Kitty: Something like that.

Me: Oh Kitty, you’ve wildly underestimated me.

13

KATRINA

Christian is getting out of the bathtub when the doorbell rings.

“Dry off and get in your pajamas,” I say as I walk to the front door. I’m counting down the minutes until bedtime and simultaneously feeling guilty about wanting my kid to be asleep already. Mondays are the longest days. Three classes, critique group, and Christian has soccer practice. I’ve been going nonstop all day and I’m so close to blissful silence and handfuls of Goldfish crackers (Those things are addictive!) while I mindlessly watch TV.

I open the door, expecting my neighbor to need sugar or flour or whatever it is neighbors ask for. For reference, none of my neighbors have ever done this, but it’s always what I expect/hope for when the doorbell rings. I’m not awesome at very many things, but I’ve got sugar and flour on the ready.

A FedEx delivery woman stands on the other side of my door holding a box and one of those electronic scanners. “Hi. Are you Katrina Phillips?”

“Yes.”

She pushes the electronic scanner toward me. “Sign here.”

Once I’ve scribbled some semblance of my signature on the screen, she shoves the box in my hands and wishes me a good night.

I don’t recognize the return address, but it was sent same day shipping, so it has to be something amazing. I take the box inside and set it on the counter, delaying the excitement of finding out what’s inside.

I walk around the apartment picking up toys, grabbing the giant carton of Goldfish and a can of Diet Coke and placing it on the coffee table for later, all while keeping an eye on the box as if staring at it will somehow give me some clue what it is.

“Christian, are you ready for bed?”

On cue, he races out to the living room still sopping wet with a towel thrown over his head. “You’re supposed to dry off before you leave the bathroom,” I remind him as I take the towel and wrap it around him and then hug him tightly. “Did you brush your teeth?”

Instead of answering he smiles big showing off his little teeth and giving me a whiff of the minty toothpaste.

“Go get your pajamas on I’m right behind you.”

I steal another glance at the box and follow Christian into his room.

The apartment is small, but Christian has his own room on the other side of the apartment from mine. Per our lease agreement, we can’t do anything about the boring white walls, but his room is decorated with artwork from preschool, pictures we’ve colored together, and a few Hobby Lobby-esque pictures that my mom bought to help decorate his room when he was little.