Not even when we ultimately came to the agreement on our courthouse wedding and backyard reception four years ago.
The only people we needed were our friends and their little ones too. My maids of honor stood beside me while Rowan’s best men stood beside him. Aaliyah was the cutest little flower girl, and Lola was squealing on someone’s lap.
My curls were loose and wild, tears were smearing my mascara, and I was heaving as I sobbed. My heart had never felt so full, and I’d never felt more beautiful. I’d never felt more in love.
“Sweetheart!” Rowan shouts. “I’ve got the cupcakes.”
As I walk down the steps with Lilac’s face nestled into my neck, I meet my husband in our kitchen—wide and bright and fully equipped with everything a baker and chef could dream of.
Sunlight pours in and casts a glow around him, a halo surrounding his head.
“I’m right here,” I say with a smile, “no need to yell.”
He turns, startled before a grin slowly encompasses his face. “Hey, sweetheart.” His arm comes around me and he kisses me, then his daughter. “Jacob!”
“Yeah, Daddy!”
“We gotta go, little monster,” he calls out. “We got everything?”
I nod and kiss his jaw. “I think so. Where are the cake pops?”
He retrieves them and I wait for him to hand them to me. Jacob comes barreling in with his dinosaur and our old Binx on his tail, and he stares up at us with bright brown eyes and a grin. One of my favorite faces belongs to this beautiful boy right here.
This family I have, these kids, often make me consider having more with Rowan—I’d probably have a million kids with him as long as it’s all by his side for the rest of our life.
But Rowan and I are happy with two.
With the help of my dads, who moved back to Willow Springs after their world travels, we had evenmorehelp. All of our friends have given, and continue to give, endless support. Sometimes, we take turns babysitting and supervising sleepovers. Sometimes, us moms let the dads supervise while we have our girls’ nights.
According to the kids, they are more fun than us. Personally, I just think it’s because they let the kids get away with everything because they’re cute.
Jacob’s grin is toothy and lopsided and perfect. “Mama, can I help?”
“Yes, sweetheart.” I hug him to my side. “Want to hold the macarons?”
He nods eagerly, his small hand on my thigh for comfort. I don’t know who comforts who anymore because I don’t think these three will ever understand the peace they give me.
Jacob also loves baking with me now, but his favorite part is the flour—tossing it up in the air and saying, “Mama, it’s snowing” with roars of laughter. Jacob cooks with his dad too. He loves being Rowan’s sous chef while they make breakfast and surprise me with it in bed.
On Mother’s Day, the three of my rascals jumped into bed and suffocated me with love and a three-course breakfast. And Rowan, because Lilac was still so delicate and tiny, was strapped to his chest. Talk about aDILF…
“Here, be careful.” Rowan sets the container of macarons in Jacob’s arms and our son nods, grinning. “Let’s go before we’re late.”
I hold Lilac on my left hip and the tray of cake pops in my right hand. Rowan holds the trays of rainbow cupcakes in his arms, and Jacob moves slowly—taking his job as macaron protector very seriously. He’s just like his dad sometimes.
Everything we load into the car is what I’ve baked for our niece, Nina’s, first birthday—Lana and Christian’s second daughter. The second generation of us is growing and being raised together, and it’s so beautiful. They’re going to be stuck in each other’s lives the way we have been since we were kids, and they’re so lucky.
Iam so lucky.
Rowan, my personal DILF, buckles our babies into the family SUV. Jacob thanks his dad in his cute voice with a quick hug—Jacob’s all about physical touch—and Lilac playfully smacks his stubbled cheek before pecking it with a kiss.
Then it’s my turn.
With the kids secure, he comes to my side and opens the passenger door before my hands can even get near it. “Nope,” he says. “Don’t think about it.”
“What happened to my feminist husband?”
“I’m still a feminist.” He smirks. “But I’m also your humble servant.”
