And sitting in the middle of the room is Archer, surrounded by a heap of equally dirty toys. My gaze slides down his body, taking in his once mostly-clean outfit. Now, his gray monster truck shirt and blue shorts are filthy. Brows furrowed, I turn to find his brother happily scooping up piles of dirt and building what I can only assume is a racetrack.
He’s equally dirty.
With a groan, I look down, finding my white sundress covered in brown toddler handprints.
“Seriously?” I mutter, shaking my head. I mustn't have noticed with all the screaming and chaos.
My hands skim down the pleats, but it’s too late. There’s no rescuing it without a heavy dose of bleach. Boy mom for the win.
Archer sniffles, pulling my attention back to the situation at hand. With a sigh, I tiptoe through the mess and scoop him up, dropping him on my hip.
“Are you okay, baby?” I ask, brushing tears from his dirty cheeks. He shakes his head, his lower lip wobbling.
Arch is my sensitive boy. At times, he’s just as rambunctious as his brother, but he’s quick to cry and feel big emotions, whereas Asher would rather wreak havoc than waste time with tears.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
He shakes his head again, burying his face in my neck. Patting his back, I turn to his brother. “So, my sweet, darling boys. Which of you would like to tell Mama what happened? Where did all this dirt come from?”
And why? Oh, God, why?
Ash jumps to his feet and shoots me a wide grin. “I show you, Mama.”
“Joy,” I mutter, following him through the playroom. It’s right off the open concept main floor, which makes watching them a lot easier when we’re cooking dinner or cleaning up the house.
Ash leads me toward the pantry/mudroom and my face scrunches up. The moment the boys could walk, Logan had to childproof every door that leads outside. Archer kept trying to escape, demanding in his adorable baby-talk that he wanted to be with his dog family.
The doorshouldbe locked, which makes the whole dirt thing even more baffling.
That is, until my son drops to his knees and shoves his small body through the doggy door.
“Are you kidding me?” I cry, setting Archer on the floor as I get a better look.
The second he’s free from my grip, he scurries after his brother, his tears and dismay completely forgotten. I dive forward, snatching onto his foot just as he makes his way through the hole. His tennis shoe slips off and I fall backward on my ass with a thud.
My eyes burn.
Fuck. Some days arehard.
My head tips back and I stare up at the ceiling, questioning every life decision that brought me to this moment. The boys howl and laugh outside the door, whispering about how they need more dirt for their logging camp.
Ah, so that's what it was. Another thing they’ve learned from their dad. A dad who’s busy at work, doing all he can to keep Huxley Homes the booming company it is so I can fulfill my lifelong dream of being a stay at home mom.
Exhaustion fills me, and because I’m apparently a fucking sadist, my mind immediately wanders back upstairs. Could I be pregnant?
Well, of course, technically I could. Logan and I still have just as much sex as we did when we first met. It may not be as wild and adventurous, but very rarely does a day pass by where we’re not wrapped up in each other.
Sometimes it’s after the boys are asleep. Other times, Logan rolls me over in the middle of the night, and I wake up to him slowly fucking me, drawing me from sleep. A shiver races down my spine. Those are some of my favorite moments we share, only coming in second to lazy morning fucks.
My cycles aren’t as terrible as they once were. I’ve done a lot to regulate them over the years, and surprisingly, having a full-term, successful pregnancy with the twins helped a lot. Still, ovulating is hit or miss.
But we keep trying, and every month, no matter how much I try to talk myself from the ledge, I’m always hopeful. I’m never not praying for it to work. I’m never not breaking my promise to not test before I’ve missed my period.
Every month, I beg and pray to whoever will listen. And every month, I’m heartbroken all over again. It’s torture, and on days like this one, I wonder why I try so hard. I wonder why I want it so badly.
Then I see their faces, I hold their hands, I hear them sleepily call my name, and Iremember.
Being a mother is wild.
