Page 80 of Please Send Snow
“Maddie,”Dylan yells, scrambling off his stool and launching himself across the room.
“Merry Christmas, dill pickle,” I tell him.
“Merry Christmas,” he says when he reaches me, wrapping his arms around my waist, and then pulling back with a tentative expression. “Merry Christmas…Mommy.”
That’s all it takes to start the waterworks. I lift him up in my arms, hoping he won’t notice, and he wraps himself around me like a vine. But of course he can’t help but notice that I’m sobbing.
“You’re crying because you’re happy,” he says a little worriedly, like he’s not a hundred percent sure.
“I just l-lovehearing you call me mommy,” I manage after a second. “I’m c-crying because I’mv-veryhappy.”
“That’s nice, Mommy,” he says lightly, patting my back.
For some reason the fact that he’s so easygoing about things after only a moment of reassurance is funny to me, so now I’m laughing a little through my tears as Jake comes to embrace us both.
He cups my cheek in his big hand, and tilts my face up to him.
His eyes are twinkling.
“Are you laughing at me?” I ask him, pulling myself together.
“Never,” he says, but a dimple pops on his cheek and the corner of his mouth tugs up and I can tell that he’s trying hard not to laugh.
“We made French toast,” Dylan suddenly remembers, wiggling to get down and show me.
Jake pulls me in for a quick kiss that sends lightning bolts down my spine, and then we both follow Dylan into the kitchen to admire their handiwork.
It actually looks really good.
“Are you surprised?” Jake asks.
“I mean, this looks almost professional,” I tell him.
“Bronson gave us a few pointers,” Jake says, shrugging. But I can tell how pleased he is.
They take off their aprons, and Dylan marches around as puffed-up as a peacock while Jake plates the food and I pour us each a glass of orange juice.
The French toast is light as air and deliciously sweet, but we hurry through breakfast because it’s clear how much Dylan wants to open presents. He doesn’t ask, but he keeps squirming in his chair and peeking over at the tree between bites.
“Is anyone ready for presents?” Jake asks when the kitchen is tidied up again.
“Me!” Dylan squeals, making a beeline for the tree.
Jake pours us each a mug of coffee and we head out to join Dylan.
“How about that nice big one first,” Jake says, pointing to a box-shaped gift. “Let’s see who that’s for.”
Dylan scrambles over to it and flips the tag over.
“Me,”he says excitedly, his feet dancing in place. “It’s forme.”
“Oh, that’s a good one,” Jake says. “Do you need any help opening it?”
But that’s all the encouragement Dylan needs to tugat the ribbon and then attack the paper with everything he’s worth.
I can’t help smiling and Jake grabs my hand in his, chuckling as we both watch our favorite boy reveal the box that contains the gift he’s been wishing for since the day I met him.
“A train set,”he yells, before dashing over to wrap an arm around each of us and squeeze us hard. “Thank you, thank you,thank you.”
