Chapter 2-Kenya Monroe #2
I was in the room when Kendra gave birth to her three children. She and her husband, Ivan Sr. asked me to be the godmother to all of them, and I gladly accepted. It was the closest to motherhood that I had been, and I counted it as a blessing.
I always wanted to be a mother, but Bailee was right, I wasn’t a spring chicken, and my eggs were only good for so long.
The thought had crossed my mind to get a sperm donor so I could become a mother on my terms.
I did thorough research on the process, but it was something about a stranger being my child’s father that didn’t sit right with me.
The reality of it is that anybody could say anything on an application.
You could tell me all day long how attractive and charismatic a man was, but what if my child came out callous with a lack of intelligence because the sperm donor was mean and ignorant? I didn’t want that to be my reality.
“Ivan wants another one, but I think the chapter of birthing babies is over for me. I always wanted to be through by the time I was thirty. My thirtieth birthday will be later this year, so that is a firm no for me.”
“There was a time that I said the same thing. First, I said thirty, then I said thirty-five, but now it looks more like forty or maybe forty-five. I feel ready right now, but there are also things I still want to accomplish … So forty, but it’s like, should a forty-year-old be trying to conceive?
What kind of life could I be able to offer a baby if I had him or her at forty? ” I looked at her for answers.
Despite her being six years younger than me, she was living a life that I longed for, and this was an area she was qualified to give me advice about.
“That is a loaded question,” she said as Nina sat our food down. “I mean, physically, you don’t look like you are thirty-five, but when you talk about having a baby, your physical appearance takes a back seat. Have you started having heat flashes yet?”
“Kendra, don’t make me cut you.” I joked with her, as I pointed my knife in her direction. I set it down and proceeded to drape the napkin across my lap. “Heat flashes are nowhere in my near future.” In spite of my confident tone, I could only hope that much was true.
“Look, don’t shoot the messenger. We both know the older you get; the more complicated pregnancy can be. With that being said, if God has it in His plan for you to be a mother, you will be. Don’t let me or an imaginary clock make you feel like being a mother isn’t attainable.”
“Thanks for saying that, Kendra. My secretary told me that she got engaged over the weekend, and—”
“Wait, didn’t she just get divorced last year?” Her face twisted in confusion as she waited for my response.
“Yes, and she just got engaged to a man she met online. She told me that I should try it, and I had to tell her about herself.”
“You went off on that poor girl. Why? Online dating is the thing now. If Daddy hadn’t introduced me to Ivan and I was still single, I would give it a shot. What do you have to lose?”
Our father, Dr. Kevin Monroe, introduced Kendra to one of his colleague’s sons, who was also a doctor. It was darn near a modern day arranged marriage, but Dr. Ivan Hawkins was a catch.
One would think that since Ivan and I were the same age, he would have set up the two of us, but since Kendra was the one flaunting the rock, it was obvious he didn’t see it that way. I always had a feeling that our mother was the orchestrator of their relationship.
She always wanted Kendra to have the best of everything, and she went above and beyond to ensure that it happened. I respected the union that Ivan and Kendra had, but I wasn’t blind, and I could acknowledge Ivan as an aesthetically appealing man, with intellect, and a regal sense of style to match.
My sister and I were complementing opposites, balancing each other out, and although we shared physical similarities, our personalities were night and day. I was the scholar, and she was the partyer.
I was into my books when she was into her looks, even though my looks were never something that I struggled with, they also weren’t my claim to fame.
Standing at five foot nine, one hundred and eighty-five pounds, I owned my natural curves and built physique. I kept myself up appearance wise, but no matter how I carried myself, I couldn’t seem to attract the right man , and I wasn’t willing to lower my standards just to have a man.
I’d rather be alone than be in a relationship where I am playing mother to a grown man who was trying to walk in shoes he couldn’t fit nor fill.
Then there was the part of me that didn’t want to be in a position to groom a man again, only for him to give another woman the opportunity to reap the benefits.
“I just don’t feel comfortable communicating with someone I can’t see. What if he is a psychopath? Or worse, what if he turns out to be a catfish? Have you ever seen that show? I would die if somebody did that to me.” I shook with horror at the thought of being humiliated for a second time.
“That show is just for entertainment,” she said, her tone dismissive as she waved me off with her hand. “What do you have to lose, though?”
“My dignity.”
“Nonsense,” she challenged. “Look, I am going to set you up on a dating app. I just saw a commercial on TV for them. It seemed legit, and the actors in the commercial were attractive.”
“What is the name of the app?” I was torn between fascination and resentment.
“ BlackLove ,” she answered as she pulled out her phone and showed me the app in the app store. Glancing at her screen, I saw some of the reviews before she turned away
“I am going to let you set up this account, but don’t have me out here looking desperate.”
“ Looking desperate?” A sardonic tone was present in her voice as she stared at me.
“What are you insinuating?” My head tilted the side as I chewed the morsels of food in my mouth.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. What are you looking for in a man?”
“I want him to be educated. He needs to at least have a master’s degree, be successful in his career, tall, wealthy, cultured, physically fit, charming, and definitely no kids.
Men with kids come with way too much baggage, and I don’t have time for baggage.
He can be divorced, but definitely no kids. ”
“Perfect. That shouldn’t be too hard … Send me three or four cute pictures of yourself, so that I can add them to your profile.”
“Do you want me to send them to you now?”
“Please and thank you. I’m creating your profile now. We need to get this done like yesterday.”
I grabbed my phone from my Chanel bag and went to the gallery to determine which pictures I wanted my potential husband to see.
The task wasn’t hard. As a naturally photogenic person, every picture I took was a good one, and there was no shortage of pictures thanks to my recent solo trip to Montreal.
“They should be coming over.” A few seconds later, her phone released a series of chirps.
“Got them … These are too cute. I see you getting your model on … Okay, now, tell me your ideal date.”
I groaned in agony. Wasn’t it enough that I really didn’t want to do this?
“This is too much, and I just want to enjoy my dinner.”
“No, it’s not. Just imagine your ovaries shriveling up.”
“That’s not funny,” I said, putting my fork down so that I could give her my undivided attention. I hummed a familiar tune, rubbing my temples.
“Are you thinking?”
“Yes … Okay … My ideal date would be going to an art gallery, then to a wine tasting, and ending the night at a five-star restaurant.”
“Ooooohhhh. That is an appropriate answer, and it sounds like a great, enjoyable evening, but I can’t put that on your profile.”
“But that’s my ideal date.”
“Yes, but it will make you appear too refined. Maybe the changing point in your dating life will be spicing up your personality.”
“My personality is just fine. Besides, too much spice is a bad thing.”
“Said no one ever,” she quickly responded, causing us both to burst into laughter.
Whatever Kendra had in mind was something that I was more than likely going to live to regret.
Nevertheless, her creating the profile was a way for us to bond and had the proclivity to add a little something to my day-to-day life. Maybe a little spice was just what I needed.