The truth is I could do this — and I do, but as the reality of single-parenthood has sunk in, I realize that it's harder than I imagined and in ways I hadn't anticipated. I am no longer in brand-new baby bliss on a long, paid maternity leave, watching Oprah with a sleeping eight-pound person on my chest that smells fantastic — like warm bread and oatmeal and baby powder. I am a single mom, single-income family — I'm single. And when my son yells "Dad-dee," amongst toddlers with two parents, I realize that this fact is going to matter to my son no matter what I do, no matter how good a mother I am. There will always be a "daddy" missing.

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Down the road when I do get married my son will still bear the burden that his father left. It is deeply affecting and I know this. I am not lost on the reality of how I came to be a single mother. I was irresponsible and even though I've morphed into the most responsible version of Christine, I still know my son won't care when the other little boys are playing baseball with their fathers. That's why after JD was born, I called his father, the person who left when I was just eleven weeks pregnant and asked him if he'd like to meet his son and start contributing. My son has never met his father.

After JD "danced side-to-side, twisted-twisted" and "waved bye-bye" to Gymbo-the-clown, or more appropriately the creepy puppet fixed on the instructor's hand, I extend my hand to his and he wraps it around my pointer finger. I could also cry in moments like these — joyful tears, like wedding ones because I feel like the most important person in the universe. I even have the falling-in-love butterflies in my stomach. I am in love with this little boy and our life together.

I am in love with this little boy and our life together. "Jacket time, little bud," I say, leading him over to a wall of cubbies. "Should we have grilled cheese for lunch today?" I ask as I feed his arm, then the other through the puffy sleeves. "Ease?" he says. "Cha-eese," I say. "Cha-eese." "Ease?" he says again, cocking his head, opening his little fist like I might have a stick of string cheese in my pocket.

Velour-running-suit mom kneels down next to us and starts to put her daughter's sneakers on. The little girl is folded over, raking her fingers on the carpet. As her mother starts to put her right shoe on, little girl kicks the left one off. I watch from the corner of my eye as the mother blows hair out of her face. She looks defeated. I easily relate as I recently spent an entire morning looking for JD's left Nike. That I found in the umbrella can. There was no one else to help with the search and when I asked JD where his sneaker was, he gave me a Cheerio from his little cup. Adorable metaphors that remind me I am alone in this make me smile and tear up without warning. With that thought, JD rips his hat off and says: "Nah!" His word for "No."

"It's chilly out, Mr. Loomba (one of his many nicknames — the origin completely lost on me)," I say, pulling the hat with little bear ears over his head.

"Nah!" he says ripping it off, his blonde hair frizzing up in the quick static friction. He looks like a kitten in cold water with his hair shooting from all angles.