Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
As the baby got older, he would switch to baby books, then toddler books, so on and so forth.
The effort was appreciated, but it seemed as though our firstborn wasn’t quite sold on books yet. But, hey, who could blame him? Learning to read was work. And he would much rather be out climbing a tree, riding his bike, or getting into some new form of inventive trouble.
A’s arm shot out, holding the side of the table as our second-born tried to shoot up off of the carpet without thinking, and would have knocked himself out in the process.
Just turned four, he wasn’t the best at thinking ahead. Or avoiding injury. If a day went by that he wasn’t getting bruised or bloody, it was cause for celebration.
My hand went to my belly, feeling the hard roundness of it. It wouldn’t be long now.
Three kids.
All boys.
The universe knew what it was doing.
I wasn’t sure if I would be cut out to be a girl mom.
The boys, though, the boys I understood.
If it was gross or dangerous, they wanted in on it.
I could handle that.
A little hosing off in the driveway could make even the filthiest kid clean again.
As for the dangerous shit, well, I always found myself equal parts impressed and concerned.
I could never be mad at them.
Not when they looked up at me with their daddy’s face and my eyes.
“There. I did it,” our eldest declared, slamming his book shut dramatically.
“Good job,” A said, reaching over to ruffle his too-long hair. “Why don’t you and your brother go outside and run off all that energy, yeah?”
The boys didn’t need more than that.
They flew through the doorway, nearly taking me down as they went.
“Come on, mama,” he invited, scooting back on the arm of the couch, and patting the space in front of him.
I didn’t need another invitation.
I made my way across to him, sliding in front of him, resting back on his chest.
A smile pulled at my lips as his arms went around me, one over my chest, the other resting on my stomach.
“How you feeling?”
“Fat. And done being an incubator.”
I was not one of those happy pregnant ladies.
For the first trimester, I felt like I was sick enough that I’d actually thrown up my stomach lining.
Then for the second trimester, I was so thankful to not be sick that I just ate and ate and ate. Mostly combinations that made me feel sick to think about when I wasn’t pregnant.
Pickles dipped in marshmallow fluff.
Ice cream with hot sauce.
And, as if those weren’t bad enough, fish sticks dipped in strawberry milkshakes.
Then, when the third trimester came around, it was all kicking my bladder, unending heartburn, and this sort of pressure that made me feel like I was going to burst at any moment.
I loved my babies.
But I loved them just a little bit more when they were outside of my body rather than in it.
“Not too long now,” A said. Ever calm. Ever patient.
Easy for him to be when no one was using his bladder as a trampoline.
“I think three is a good number,” I said, relaxing into him.
“We’re gonna be outnumbered.”
“Oh, we’ve been up against worse odds before.”
“Out of all of ‘em, think the worst was trying to get you to step back from work, so you could go deliver our first kid,” A said, making a little chuckle escape me.
Fine. Yeah.
I’d been a little obsessed with the company when I’d first opened it up. What can I say? I’d seen all the ways Mike had fucked up our agency, creating a toxic work environment, ass-kissing those with deep pockets, and letting the little guys fall behind in priority.
I wanted a better legacy than that.
And I’d put a special interest in hiring strong, capable, smart women to work there.
Eventually, I had to loosen the reins a bit, let my very capable staff take charge while I spent more time at home.
Wrangling unruly kids.
Doing endless loads of laundry.
Sneaking into closets and pantries and the shower for quickies with my husband.
Reading spicy books in bed with him.
Playing with the dogs.
“Heya, buddy,” I said to Val, a little creaky, very white in the face, as he came into the room to curl up next to us.
It wasn’t long until another four-legged creature was bouncing into the room. All curly white hair in a perpetual puppy cut.
A mini poodle.
A poodle.
In a sea of pitbulls.
But you couldn’t tell him he was different.
If anything, when Noodle barked, all the other fearsome beasts fell into line.