Olivia squeals with happiness, her red hair flying out behind her.Ireland picks up the words of the song, crooning to our daughter as they spin and dip and twirl around the kitchen as if they don't have a care in the world.
I scoop our eleven-month-old, Miles, out of his high chair to kiss him.He places one grubby hand against my cheek, grinning.I'm guessing his two-year-old brother, Otis, is napping.
"Hi, buddy," I murmur."Are you watching your mama dance?"
"Momomomomom," he jabbers at me, and then spies the snacks on his tray and reaches for them, hungry like always.
I chuckle, buckling him back into his seat, and then turn to watch Ireland and Olivia, a big grin stretched across my face.They're the worst dancers I've ever seen in my life.Neither of them could dance on the beat if their lives depended on it.But they're some of the best, too.If dance is about freedom and beauty, they've nailed that part.
"Come dance, daddy!"Olivia demands, holding out one little hand.
"Yeah," Ireland says, those green eyes shining as she spins around to face me."Come dance with us, Crue."
I don't tell them no.Of course, I don't.I'm wrapped around their little fingers.Happily.
I spin them around the kitchen, keeping a close eye on Ireland, who I suspect is pregnant again.She hasn't figured it out yet.But I know her body better than I know myself.I spend every night worshipping at her feet.She's a week late…and she's never late unless she's carrying one of my babies.
I won't ruin the surprise for her, though.I'll keep it to myself and let her figure it out so she can tell me.She loves finding ways to spring the news on me.Almost as much as she loves begging me to give her a baby when she's ready for another one.I'm not sure which of us burns hotter when she's pleading with me to breed her.Her?Me?We both live for that shit.
The song ends, and I pull Ireland into my arms to kiss her.
"No!"Olivia squeals, squirming until Ireland puts her down.
As soon as her feet touch the floor, she's off again, running to find her next big adventure.She's just like her mom, full of life and always on the move.
"Hi, rockstar," Ireland whispers, grinning at me as I seam her body to mine.
"Hi," I whisper back and then devour her lips.
"Maybe I should send you to school pickup more often if I get kisses like that when you get home," she says when I let her up for air.
"Fuck school pickup, Éire."I narrow my eyes on her."You didn't tell me the line was eighteen years long."
"Oops."She smirks at me.
"You also didn't tell me that there are two lines."
"There are two lines?"
"Yeah.Apparently, parents with special needs kids get the shorter line.I saw it and thought I hit the jackpot.And then some cranky lady with a whistle tried to blow my eardrums to inform me that I was in the wrong line.I had to drive all the way back around the school to get in the right line," I grumble."Fuck school pickup.It's way too fucking complicated."
"It's not complicated, Crue," she says, laughing."You pull up, wait in line, and they bring her out to you."
"Yeah, unless you get in the wrong damn line.And then you get yelled at by a cranky lady in a reflective vest."
"She yelled at you?"
"Yes, she yelled at me.She said maybe I need to go back to school and learn how to read since I can't read the damn letters on her vest that said special needs line.So I told her maybe she needed a brighter fucking vest so we could actually see the damn letters.The whole line heard us."
Ireland presses her lips together, trying hard not to laugh.
"You might as well go ahead and laugh.Half the damn parents in line were laughing."
"I'm not laughing," she says, choking on laughter.
"Oh, really?"
"Really."
