Page 8 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“It’s in your face, your eyes, it’s everywhere on you, baby,” he relays mournfully.

“I look that bad?”

“No ... thatsad. So, I say we do things differently. We’ve spent so much of our time trying to set a good example, living for those kids, I don’t even know whoI amanymore. I know forty fucking Wiggles songs,” he pulls back and rolls his eyes, “but I can’t remember the last time I rocked out to a damn song I wanted to listen to.”

“That’s being a parent,” I point out. “You’re a good dad, Thatch. Please know that.”

“And you’re an incredible mother, Serena. So let’s stop beating ourselves up that the little shits we made don’t recognize it.At all. Come on, let’s talk more in the shower.”

“I’m not in the mood,” I mumble, hating that I have nothing left for him. “I’m really so tired.”

“This isn’t about sex,” he utters, his tone defensive.

“I didn’t mean itthat way. You’re right, I’m just ... sad. I don’t want to have sad sex.”

“I get it, I’m ... fuck,” he glances over at me. “I don’t even know what I am,” he utters, tugging off his O’Neal’s Contracting long-sleeve T-shirt. One we designed together when our business started to really take off. Pride fills me as I soak him in while he undoes his buckle. A sudden shift has me wanting to steal more moments like this with him. Even if it’s doing the unthinkable by blaspheming our kids.

“You want to quit?” The sparkle in his eyes increases. “Well then, let’s fucking quit. Let’s force them to realize how frustratedwe are. To understand we’re living for them and what we sacrifice daily. I propose we do it in a way that’s going tostick.”

“How?”

“By driving our point home in a very unadult but effective way,” he declares, disrobing me, his eyes rolling appreciatively down my naked body. And thank God for that—even if the last thing I want to do right now is have sex. It’s when he pushes his boxers down, his cock half-mast, that I sweep him appreciatively. Baby steps into his forties, and his build is incredible. Credit to his job, he spends his days lifting, hauling, hammering, and nailing, and it’s evident in his physique he cuts no corners. I continue to feast on his efforts as we both step under the twin rain shower heads he installed last year—a perk of being a contractor’s wife—and start to suds up.

“But if we’re going to do it, we need to really do it,” he says as he turns his back, palming the newly installed penny tile. It’s then I zero in on one of my top three favorite parts of Thatcher O’Neal—his perfect bubble ass. An ass I often sink my teeth into out of adoration in play and for sexual sport. “We’re going to go rogue,” he states, pulling me to him under the steaming water and tilting my head up to help rinse the soap from my hair.

“Meaning?”

“Toss every bit of bullshit that’s not working—the books, the online advice, and the judgmental rants of backseat driving parents. These are our kids, and it’s time for something different. How extreme we go is up to them. Let’s truly letthem decide. Their behavior will make the decision. Not one parent has probably ever used the naughty list as a true incentive. So, let’s be the fucking first.”

“Won’t that make us the assholes?” I argue.

“Yes, but it’s a lesson they won’t forget. This is serious. Our four-year-old is biting, cursing, and driving his pre-K teacher nuts. Gracie is learning to be an egomaniacal asshole. Theyhave no remorse to the point I’m terrified we’re raising twin sociopaths. So, this is not just for us. It’s for them. They can’t continue like this and survive in this world. Even if we cave last minute, I say we scare them shitless until we do. Perfect we might not be, but we’re going to make them, at the least, appreciate the parents they do have. But you have to trust me, and you have to beall in.”

“Thatch, you’re the nicer, less aggressive parent. I trust you wholly. If you think we should gothere, then I’m worried. So yeah. I’m with you.”

“No backing down,” he states, his voice filled with a rare determination. “I mean it, babe. If we undermine one another, in no way will this work.”

“I swear,” I say, running my hands down his muscled shoulders. “So, when do we start?” He bends eye level, a sexy smirk twisting his thick lips as he leans in, the twinkle in his eyes a bit seductive.

“Right now.”

“Oh myDAWD!” Peyton erupts from the living room as I stir awake. A dozen scenarios play out in my head as I scramble to sit, then stand, fear thrumming through me as I do my best to come to. It’s the explosion of words from upstairs that has my shoulders easing.

“Oh my God, I’m so late! ... Mom, why didn’t you wake me up?!”

Climbing back into bed, I palm Serena’s stomach and pull her to me, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. I press my lips to what skin is available at the neck of her plaid pajama top, or rather, mine. While we both got a little worked up last night in scheming up a way to get our sanity back, sadly, we both dozed after the adrenaline wore off. Suckling on her skin, I pop my mouth off and whisper a “good morning.” When she cranes her neck to look back at me, I’m met with a welcome ... smile.

“Hello smile, it’s been a minute.”

“Yeah, but I kind of feel bad already,” she saysthroughher grin.

“No, you don’t,” I chuckle as she nestles a little into me.

“I needed that sleep so badly,” she admits.

“Me too,” I say, glancing at the clock. Eight-thirty. Our first Christmas miracle.

“Daddy!” Peyton summons again, this time more in demand, which I ignore in lieu of memorizing my wife’s newly reborn smile.

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