A Psycho, Snappy, Nasty, Dime-A-Dozen Chicken

by Henry Hardee

My life made a sudden change. When I found out that I was pregnant everything flipped.

I use to be one of the party people. I knew how to have a good time. Just let me do a coupla lines, hit off a gooood joint and I was ready to go. I was clubbing every night, "Turn It Out", "Watch Out Now!" I was down with whatever got the boys attention. You couldn't tell me that I wasn't the hottest shit evah when I would throw on a sexy something that showed off my groceries.

I went from looking for the hiphop spots to go to and the latest bars to hangout at to looking for childcare: cheap reliable babysitters that didn't mind workin' with infants (cause they cry so much).

When I told my man I was gonna have a baby he scratched his head, "Whhhh-What" like he was all surprized and didn't know how it jumped off. He clowned on me, told me that I was "straight up ill." I was no longer a sugar-voiced honey but a cracked-voice pigeon trying to put a baby on him. I went from being eye candy (a naked horny ass woman) to a psycho, snappy, nasty, dime-a-dozen chicken.

Gettin' child support out of him was like trying to break into an ATM machine. I had to take him to court. The test said that 99.9 % the baby was his but he still said it wasn't and that I was a gold-digga-rat-chicken headed-pigeon. He was blahzay blah, --"Suck my dick!" He was blase-blah,-- " Fuck your mother!" He was dissing me like that was gonna change things. He wasn't sayin' all that when he was all up in my cleavage.

The outer me wanted to get back at that punk-bitch-ass-nigga for not owning up to his responsibilities. The inner me knew that I had to get over that funky shit he was trying to pull on me cause I had to be down for my baby. Only God knows why things happen the way they do and sometimes you just got to go with the flow.

I wanted to raise my son without him worrying about what his daddy was gonna do, or what he suppose to be doing but wasn't. I'm gonna be there for him all the way, right there where he can run into my arms when somebody tries to hurt him.

What I learned about being a mother I learned by myself--(my mother is in Glory). The shit was scary. Every time I didn't like the sound of his sneeze I took him to the emergency room. I was there two straight days and nights when he got a rash on his butt.

Back in the day, when I was by myself, I spent money I didn't have on things that I didn't need. I would go hungry (I can stand to lose a few pounds) or live on macaroni and cheese until the next payday.

Back in the day, when I did have money to buy food with I use to run around the store trying to be cute swinging one of those plastic baskets that you carry around in your hand and I'd put all kinds of stuff in it. Stuff I didn't even want. Stuff that I would just let mold in the refrigerator. I woulda never thought about using a coupon (let alone let a man see me use a coupon).

These days I can't let my son, Baby T, go hungry. I have to get a shopping cart. I look for those yellow and white tags that are stuck to the shelves to let me know that something is on sale. I don't get nothing I don't need. I pull out my "Preferred Card" and I don't care who see me getting a few cents knocked off my bill. I read my receipt to make sure I got all my "Preferred Cared Saving." I read my receipt so I will know how much I saved by using my Preferred Card. I make a mental note of who waited on me -- "HI, IM KAREN"-- in case things don't add up right when I figure the shit out (by hand) when I get home ( I DON'T TRUST THEM SCANNERS)--NANMEAN.

Before I had my son, I didn't want anything to do with nobody else's babies--"Little monsters." I didn't believe that I was supposed to be no mother. I was suppose to be doing something else but here I am with that boy bitin' on my ass.

Since that boy hit three years-old my social life is reading stories to him, asking him questions about what he heard and making him cupcakes with them candy alphabet shaped sprinklers on top of them so he can learn his ABCs.

I use to be gleaming, use to be model size, be a Maybelline cosmetic model in a department store. These days, I'm "full figured." I don't wear make-up (unless I have some place important to go) and keep myself covered up with reversible warm-up suits.

I use to think it was cool when I went out with a dude and I didn't come home with nothin' in ma hands. These days, I want diamonds before I step out the door--THIS "P" AIN'T FREE.

Baby T is four years old. He got a laugh that makes me wanna laugh. He got his own little flavor going on: boxers, blue denim jacket and pants set, Nikes. I'm putting him in school (I don't know how I'm gonna have him dropped off and picked up while I'm at work). He's learning a bunch of shit. He know to ask me if the smoke detectors are dead and if they is we need to put some batteries in them. He's already learning about music, "Charlie Park-er plaaaaaaays beeeee-BOP!"

My son got a big mouth, he tell everything and I ain't talkin' about that cute stuff them kids be saying to Bill Cosby on "Kids Say The Darndest Things". He talk about real shit like, "Go get my mama a beer" and "My mama was high so she called into work and said she was sick" and "Mama what you doing with that ugly looking man?" I be scared that he gonna say the wrong thing to the wrong person and make me want to put my head in my hands to hide my face. I know he don't mean no harm. I know he like a dog that barks all the time but won't bite nobody but I still wish I could lock his jaws.

Things were going good for us until an ill-will blowin' no-good brought his daddy around. He been on the hush all these years and now he wants recognition and his rights as a daddy. He on some disruption shit. He say he want to love us--KISS MY ASS BITCH. I don't believe him for a minute. I ain't taking care of him--SUCK ASS DOG. I ain't up for his mooching ways--taketaketake. I don't want him bouncing basketballs all over my house. I know in his heart he still a playa, he'll be with us for a little while and then go back out there freakin' with 'dem 'hoes in the street. I know he just trying to see what he can get out of us. That nigga need his head busted open.

A Psycho, Snappy, Nasty, Dime-A-Dozen Chicken by Henry Hardee

© Copyright 2002. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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