A Thugs Baby Mama

What's good, world? It's your girl Dreamer. I'm twenty-one, got a six-year-old son, and another one baking in the oven. Now, I already know what some of y'all are thinking—here we go again, another one of them hood-rat, neck-popping, bubble-gum-smacking, out-here-fucking-any-and-every-nigga type stories.

But nah, that ain't me. I got my own. A good job. My own car, my own place. I work at my pops' dentist office. And when I got pregnant young, my parents didn't turn their backs on me—they stood right by my side. They even liked my son's father, Clinton. Out here, they call him "Big C." They held me down while I went to school and finished, and made sure I kept moving forward.

Now, let me keep it real with you about my baby daddy. Clinton Greene? He used to have a restaurant, had it legit for a while. But after him and his first baby mama split, shit started sliding downhill. That's when he ended up back on the block. And let me tell you, his baby mama, Shalita? Whew. That girl defined the word "problem." Always in his pockets, always hitting him up for more than he had to give. And when he couldn't come through, she was ringing my phone like I was her personal bank.

At first, I didn't mind helping, but after a while? Nah. I got my own son to feed. I couldn't keep letting her drain me like that.

Anyway, enough about her. Let's get into this story the way it's meant to be told. So sit back, relax, and ride with me through the life of a thug's baby mama.

—Signing off, Dreamer Santiago Damato.