Page 13 of Unexpectingly Happily Ever After

Maybe I hadn’t been that into celebrating during the first time around, but in my defense, I was newly pregnant and suffering from morning/noon/night sickness which resulted in me being hospitalized for dehydration. Not a fun time. Add in the cold war that had been going on with J.B. at the time and it wasn’t the best time of my life. But I more than made up for it for Brit’s second stagette. I still have bad memories of the hangover.

Giving the vegetables a stir, J.B. steps from behind the counter to the doorway. “Five minutes until dinner,” he bellows.

″What’s five minutes?” Sophie calls back.

″When the big hand is on the one, and the little hand is on the six,” he replies. “Six oh five.”

″Okay, Daddy!” Ben chimes back over the sounds ofPaw Patrol.

For some reason I find the sight of my husband parenting our children, even small things like calling them for dinner, an incredible turn on. He’s still so good-looking. But then again, his body didn’t take a beating from birthing three children all at once.

″What makes you think you can’t go to Vegas?” J.B. asks again, back to stir the veggies. He slides the sliced chicken into the pan and is rewarded by the sizzling sounds of frying meat. “I’ll talk to Coop, see if I can take a couple of nights off. I think it’ll do you good.”

I stare at my husband over the rim of my glass. It’s not that J.B. isn’t supportive or considerate–he actually understands the equality of the partnership of marriage better than I ever thought he would. Other than a hate of doing laundry, things are pretty equal when it comes to chores in our little household. But it’s one thing to fold a basket of clothes or clean a bathroom. It’s another to keep track of three 6-year-olds, responsible for their care and feeding for hours at a time. J.B. is perfectly capable of doing it but never has.

Doesn’t he know how exhausting the kids can be? Regardless of how much I love them and how fun they are at times, they make me tired.

Very tired.

I drain the martini, plucking an olive out of the bottom. “Are you serious?”

″Why wouldn’t I be serious? You worried I can’t handle it?”

I only laugh, refraining from saying anything because Lucy flies into the kitchen. Literally flies, since she’s wearing her prized Wonder Woman cape that my sister got her for her birthday.

″Yum, olives,” she cries. Before I can stop her, she reaches into to my glass and snags one of the last remaining olives.

Olives that have been immersed in two ounces of high-quality Henricks gin.

″Lucy, no!” I cry grabbing for her hand, but not before she pops the olive into her mouth.

She frowns as she chews. “It tastes funny.”

I look at J.B. with horror. But J.B. only laughs. “Well, she won’t do that again.”

″You think I’m going to leave you with them for a weekend?” I demand.

″I’m not the one who left a boozy olive there for her, like some squishy Skittle.”

″It’s nothing like a Skittle!”

″The kid loves olives. Don’t you, Lucy Goosey.”

Lucy grins as her father ruffles the red curls. “I love olives!”

″Can I have an olive?” Ben asks, popping up under my arm and reaching for my glass. “I like them.”

″You better give him one too,” J.B. sighs.

″I’m not giving him my olives.”

″Just one, Momma. Like Lucy.”

″These aren’t regular olives,” I say, not wanting to explain what makes them so different.

″They’re Momma olives,” Lucy says proudly. “They’reyummy.”

″I want one,” Sophie sings.

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