Page 11 of Unexpectingly Happily Ever After

I didn’t tell him that I had seen Sophie stick her finger in my drink more than once.

After determining that it’s Sophie’s turn to learn how to make a drink, he calls to her to helphim.

″We’re not the best parents, are we?” I ask. “Promoting alcohol?”

″It’s a teachable skill,” J.B. argues with a grin. “Plus, they’re being helpful and considerate, because they know Momma needs a drink after a long week.”

″It’s a life lesson,” I add. “It’s good to know that the three of them will be able to support themselves on a bartender’s salary if we can’t afford to keep them.”

″Why can’t you keep us?” Sophie wonders as her red head pops up on the other side of the counter. “Because if you can’t, I want to live with Cooper. Lucy and Ben will want to live with Aunt Libby, but I want Cooper.”

Along with owningThricewith J.B., Cooper and his wife Emma used to be our roommates. Or rather, Cooper and J.B. used to be roommates, and I rented out the basement apartment in Cooper’s house. And then Emma moved in. And then J.B. and I had the trips, and it became a very crowded household.

When the kids were about a year and a half, J.B. and I got our own place. Doing the mortgage thing really makes me feel like a grown-up, something J.B. always shakes his head about. “Shouldn’t having three babies make you feel like a grown-up?”

Having three babies makes me feel awesome. And exhausted.

It’s been years, but there are times I miss Coop and Emma being around. We see them all the time, but I really miss Cooper making me breakfast on the weekend. I’ve more than repaid him for the free food he provided for me; when the triplets were two, I agreed to become a surrogate for Emma and Cooper. Atticus and Aiden are now four, energetic and excitable, sweetly adorable with their shock of blond hair and identical features and look more like Emma than Cooper.

The kids adore each other. We’ve always been open with the situation–the boys came from my tummy, but belong to Cooper andEmma–and the kids accept the explanation, even though none of them really understand it.

″I’m sure Cooper’ll be happy to hear that you want to live with him if we get rid of you,” I say to Sophie. “Maybe a little frightened at the quickness of your decision but pleased you picked him.”

″Don’t worry, you’re not going anywhere,” J.B. assured her, setting the jar of olives on the counter.

″Ooh, I love olives.” Sophie beams, rubbing her hands together.

″Since when does she like olives?” J.B. turns to me.

I can’t comment on how a father should know what their children like to eat, because I had no idea Sophie even knew what an olive was.

Actually, she’d helped make martinis before and I like my olives. But I had no idea she knew they were a food to be eaten outside an alcoholic beverage.

″Maybe she had them on the pizza last week?” I guess.

J.B. speared an olive and offered the green globe to Sophie, who plucked it from the fork with relish. “Mmm. More, please.”

″Help me make Momma’s drink first. What’s in a martini?”

I should be afraid if this is what J.B. considers a teachable moment, but I only look at him with love.

He didn’t have to be here. He hadn’t wanted to be a father. Neither one of us planned on a drunken evening between friends resulting in anything more than a fond memory.

When I found out I was pregnant, J.B. hadn’t handled things well, and he’d be the first to admit it. Then, of course, I got mad. And stubborn. The first time he asked me to marry him, I said no.

It hadn’t been much of a proposal. More of athis is what we’re going to dotype of conversation, which never goes well for me. I don’t like being told what to do. I even informed J.B. that I expectedabsolutely nothing from him. I was fully prepared and committed to raising the baby on my own.

Of course, that was back when I had no idea I was carrying triplets.

I’ll always be grateful that J.B. came around. And that I accepted his second proposal. Despite the rocky beginning, J.B. and I have made it work. We have three beautiful children and a happy, albeit a little unconventional marriage.

”James Bond drinks vodka martinis but Momma likes gin,” Sophie answers J.B.’s question.

″That’s right,” J.B. says, sounding more like a teacher than I do. “And James Bond likes his martini shaken, but we like to stir Momma’s because it bruises the gin if you shake it.”

″Like Ben’s bruise from that kid tripping him in soccer,” Sophie says.

″Kind of.” J.B. glances at me. He had been furious Ben had been hurt during the soccer game by some snot-nosed kid with a mom whose Botox injections impeded her ability to parent–his words, not mine. But he was pleased as punch that Sophie defended her brother and thinks we should encourage such behaviour.

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