If I could write my 18 year-old self a letter… oh boy I would let me have it. I would say, hell no –don’t pick him. I would say, yeah, he’s 6’2 with brown caramel skin that feels silky but don’t get confused by his looks. I would say, yes, he dresses like he stepped right out of a magazine but don’t get confused by his looks. He is not good for you no matter how good he looks. The only problem is my 18 year-old self wouldn’t have listened because he looked too damn good.

My fairytale started as a little girl with my lopsided, crookedly parted hair in pigtails. I stared in the mirror as I brushed my teeth dreaming of my marriage to Ken. I was Barbie and my hubby to be was Ken. Yes, honey, my dreams included a sexy convertible parked in the front of my dream house with a cute picket fence. Girl, fast forward a few years and my tall brown yummy skinned boyfriend at the time whose name rhymed with Ken was so far the person that was supposed to provide me with the pretty picket fence life that I imagined for myself.

And he looked good.

I can recall the southern drawl of my wise rebellious grandmother telling me, “Baby, you don’t need no boyfriend. You too smart. You need to focus on school.” Why didn’t I listen? Instead of hearing the wisdom that spewed from my grandmother’s lips so eloquently, I heard the piercing newborn cry of my brand new daughter’s sweet voice alerting me of her next feeding. I was just a baby myself at the age of 19.

But he looked soooo good.

I wish I could say I loved the choice that I made at that point but I didn’t. Dayuuuuum. I deserved my Ken. Hell, forget cruising down lovers’ lane in a convertible. We were catching public transportation arguing from stop to stop as I secretly prayed that we wouldn’t be thrown off since I didn’t have money for an additional fare.

At 19 my life had become downright funny. Not funny “ha ha” but more funny like how did this ish happen? Was it a curse? Did I do something bad to someone during my short 19 years of life? My daughter’s father went from the pretty boy that resembled a male runway model to downright ratchet. He started not to look so good.

Did you ever wonder who the F coined the saying “that’s my baby daddy”? It dayum sure wasn’t me. Ugh, I hate that saying almost as much as I hate addressing my worst fears. The saying drips in negativity and drowns all ideas that I had for my kids. I wanted my baby to have a Daddy — not an urban saying attached to anything less than positive. To top it all off she didn’t even get in on his gene pool with the yummy brown skin…instead I had to slather her with greasy skin softening lotion to keep her eczema at bay. What the hell was that about? She deserved more. He really started not to look so good.

Blame it on youth. Blame it on his looks. Blame it on my kiddie dreams deferred. Blame it on whatever you like, but I never wanted a baby daddy for my baby. So what could I do? The past can’t be changed. My wrong choices can’t be unwritten but what I did was bigger than anything I could have ever done. I loved her enough for the both of us and now she’s a beautiful young girl that knows her kids deserve more than a baby daddy. They deserve a father that’s a great daddy!

Life tried to kick me in the ass, but, hell no, I never wanted a baby daddy and I meant it! Remember what our elders used to say: “I can do bad by my dayum self”! You dayum right I moved on twirling my favorite maxi dress in wind.

Kim Turner