Page 24 of Falling in Love with A Tiny Bat

Despite my best efforts, my breaths shorten, and I step away from the stove before I even turn it on.

“Hush,” I whisper, to myself. “It’s okay.”

Being a mother is what I’ve wanted and worked for and lost hope infor over a decade. Ifinallyget to be a mom. Ifinallyhave a little boy who will bemineno matter what Castor says, no matter what anyone says.

I’m just tired.

And scared.

And becoming horrifyingly aware that my mother’s expectations of perfection all throughout my childhood are making a twisted reappearance. Perfection is the standard I’ve fought for years.

But, now, Ineedto be theperfectmother. I need to make sure when Ash grows up, he doesn’t stare at his food and wage a battle in his mind asthat’s not healthyandJesus won’t love you if you desecrate his templescream in his ears.

I need to make sure he doesn’t sneer and make bad choices out of spite just so he won’t be anything like me. I need to make sure he doesn’t cry himself to sleep half-apologizing to and half-cursing at a God who would make itso hardjust toexist.

I’m overreacting. Because I’m scared.

Because I’m tired.

Because I spent the night crying and cradling my baby as I withheld his dirt crib from him.

Clearly, God is a little jokester with an epic sense of humor, because it occurs to me my child was eating dirt twenty minutes ago, yet I’m throwing a fit over cheese dough.

Pulling myself together, I make a quesadilla. With a side of turkey bacon and broccoli. Not because my mother’s rants concerning my BMI matter. Not because I’ll be cast out ofheaven if my body mass index doesn’t shape up. Because nutrients are a thing, and God does want me to take care of myself. Which, you know, means not having a crisis this early in the morning.

Lips pursed, I flip my quesadilla and mumble, “I am a good child. The best dinosaur. With my little meat-seasoned trees…” God is proud of me.

A sharp intake of breath alerts me I am not mumbling to myself alone.

Turning, I lock eyes with Alexios.

He takes a step back, and I watch red plunge into his cheeks, consuming every pale inch of his skin.

He twists on his heel before I can ask him if he wants what I’m making for breakfast, or if he’d prefer to make something himself, so instead I ask, “Where are you going?”

“Possibly to have another breakdown. I’ll decide on the stairs.”

“What?”

“My heart was not prepared to witness you being so adorable.”

My lip curls, disgust rioting. Homeboy just called mewhat? “Huh?”

Even the slices of his neck on either side of his long, thin braid are blistering red. He clamps a gloved hand to his mouth and looks at me over his shoulder. Eyes pleading, pupils large enough to block out all the gray, he murmurs, “You are not the only one experiencing life-altering changes. And you have had longer to program how exactly one regulates their nervous system.” He manages a fragile breath. “I keep having to do it manually.”

Does anyone else get the distinct feeling that bullying this man equates to kicking a baby rabbit across the medieval town in my backyard?

No?

Just me then?

Great.

The Good Lord’s humor persists. I just wish right now it didn’t feel quite soat my expense.

Man oh man, I cannot wait to play video games tomorrow night…and stress…about being unable to hear my baby beyond my headphones…

If I cancel the stream again, my viewers will have a conniption, and nothing I say will convince them I’m not dying.

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