Page 21 of Unexpectingly Happily Ever After

Dr. Francine Pascal Reid, (1943)

The day is long and exhausting, with requests for more children–three more, says Sophie–and names for the new additions tossed around. When we get home, Lucy opens the file of baby pictures we have saved on my laptop. I’ve never gotten around to putting them in the baby books that still sit pristinely in their plastic wrapping on the shelf.

Someday.

J.B. escapes to the restaurant in the middle of this, giving me an unapologetic grin and leaving me with three minds fully focused ontheir potential new toy. They’re like a dog with a bone–Baby! Baby! Baby!

″Kind of reminds me of you,” J.B. says with a chuckle as the kids scramble to line up for hugs as he’s leaving. “You were kind of fixated on the idea as well.”

″I wanted to be a mother, not have something new to play with,” I hiss, stepping out of the way as Sophie barrels back to the living room to gush at pictures of herself.

″Babies aren’t a toy, Momma,” Ben admonishes me.

″Of course not, Benny.”

After J.B. leaves, the kids stare at the pictures for another hour before they get bored and move on to other activities. I go through our usual Saturday late afternoon routine of play and dinner which ends with us piled on the couch watching a movie before bed.

Tonight it’s Sophie’s choice–Disney’sMoana.I let my mind drift as the kids sing along, Sophie reciting most of Maui’s lines.

Having more kids… What would it be like? It would mean a return to the sleepless nights and diapers and feedings, but once the first few months were over, what would be so different? J.B. and I are outnumbered already, and the kids would love a baby. They were too young to remember Atticus and Aiden as babies, but I’m sure they would love another one.

They’d love it when it was cute and smiling, not crying with a distinct poopy smell.

When I was a surrogate for Cooper and Emma, I went into the experience with a firm thought and a cold heart. I was carryingtheirchildren. Not mine. And for the most part, I was able to disassociate myself from the living miracles I was carrying. I loved them, but not like I loved my kids.

But there were a few times when I lay awake at night, while the boys rolled and kicked, I wished they were mine. I wished I could wake J.B. and let him feel our babies kick because he missed out on a lot of it with the triplets. When I had been pregnant, he hadn’t been lying beside me at night with his big hands cradling my belly, his eyes soft with love at the feel of little feet pushing at me.

When I decided to surrogate for Emma and Cooper, I had gone to my doctor to get checked out. She had been surprised but gave me a clean bill of health.

″You’ll have to have another Caesarian, but there’s no reason your body can’t handle a few more kids,” Dr. Morrissey had told me.

″Maybe not a few.”

″Have you thought of adding to your brood?” she had asked. “You’re doing something very special for your friends, but what about you? Want any more?”

I remember that day clearly because the kids had been two, and I had spent the night awake with Sophie and Lucy, Sophie throwing up, and Lucy crying, presumably because her sister was sick. I probably still smelled of sick when I went to the appointment.

″Not on your life,” I had said firmly.

But now after one little comment from J.B., my carefully organized life withno more kidswas in complete disarray, like a jigsaw puzzle dumped onto the table.

Did I want more kids?

I smoothed Lucy’s hair and turned back to the movie, my eyes growing heavy as Moana and Maui battled the monsters from the deep.

″Casey.”

I hear my name from a distance and blink my eyes open. J.B. is standing in front of me. It takes a few moments for me to realizethat I must have fallen asleep watching the movie because I’m not in bed, and there’s a weight on my chest. Lucy. I can’t see over her head to find out what–or who–the weight is on my legs.

″Hey.” I swallow to rid the dryness of my mouth. The television is still on, with a list of Netflix recommendations.

″What were you watching?” J.B. gestures to the screen. Netflix is suggesting we might enjoyBaywatch.The last thing I’m interested in is a Dwayne Johnston marathon.

″Moana.” I struggle to sit up. “But I’m a little stuck.” After years of practice, we can speak quietly enough so the kids don’t wake up.

″I can help you with that. You know you’re missing a kid,” J.B. says with a grin.

Instantly, I’m wide awake, ready to bolt upright. J.B. realizes what he’s said. “Sorry. Sophie’s in bed.”

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