"You've been busy," I say from the doorway.
He looks up, slightly sheepish. "I may have gone overboard."
"You color-coded the onesies."
"By size first, then color. It's efficient."
"It's excessive."
"It's organized." He stands, walking over to me. "How was shopping?"
"Successful. I now own dresses that fit." I look around the nursery. "This looks amazing."
"It's not done yet. I ordered a bookshelf. And a rocking chair. And some kind of sound machine that plays white noise?—"
"Miles."
"—and I'm researching the best baby monitors because apparently some have night vision and others have?—"
"Miles."
He stops, looking at me.
"It's perfect," I tell him. "All of it. You've done an amazing job."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
One of the babies kicks—hard—and I wince. Miles notices immediately.
"You okay?"
"Baby A is doing gymnastics again." I grab his hand, placing it on my stomach. "Feel that?"
His face transforms. Pure joy spreading across his features as he feels movement under his palm.
"They're playing soccer in there!"
Another kick, different spot.
"Or fighting," I laugh. "They might be fighting already."
"Team sports or sibling rivalry. Either way, they're active." He keeps his hand on my stomach, grinning like an idiot. "This is incredible."
"This is weird."
"Incredibly weird." He leans down, talking to my stomach. "Hey guys. Dad here. Could you maybe stop beating up your mom from the inside?"
Baby B delivers a solid kick right where Miles' hand is placed.
"I think that's a no," I say.
"Rebellious already. They're definitely your kids."
"My kids? You're the one who went overboard organizing onesies by color spectrum."
"That's called preparation."
