In any case, I don’t see Cara or anyone I recognize when we buy the balloons and candles, then head back home for the big reveal.
“Well?” Rose asks eagerly as I come into the kitchen with my bag of pink contraband. “Did you find out? Is it a girl or a boy?” She clasps her hands to her chest. “Oh, Ireallyhope it’s a girl!”
“I’m telling everyone at dinner,” I announce grandly, tucking the bag of pink goodies in a drawer of mismatched Tupperware I’m pretty sure none of my kids will ever think to look in.
“What!” Rose pouts dramatically, her hands now on her hips. She is definitely starting to get some tween attitude, and at only eight years old, it is a little worrying. “Mom…”
“No dice, Rose,” I tell her blithely. “You’ll have to wait for dinner along with everyone else.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Rose flounces off to the wood stove, where Ginger and Marmalade are curled up together, top to tail. I semi-regret allowing the two kittens inside; three cats and a dog are alotof animals to have underfoot. I told Rose no more catsever, but I’m not sure if she believes me. I’m not sure if I believe myself. The kittensareawfully cute, even if they’re somewhat feral.
Soon enough, everyone is gravitating to the kitchen—William and Bethany home from work, Jack setting up a board game with my dad, and Josh, having finished a tutoring session—to see what everyone else is up to.
Meanwhile, I am baking a cake.
“Mom!” Bethany exclaims mid-diatribe about a customer who wanted samples of seven different essential oils. “You had your ultrasound!”
“I did,” I confirm with what I hope is a mysterious smile.
“Well?” Bethany asks with a touch of impatience. “What is it?”
“Itis a baby,” Josh replies, putting his arm around me, and Bethany rolls her eyes.
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m telling everyone at dinner,” I say to them all, and am met with a chorus of groans. I don’t really know why I’m making such a big deal of this; when we told five-year-old Jack that he was getting a baby sister, he burst into tears, so I am fully aware that this could all go horribly wrong. It’s never a good idea to big something up that has the distinct possibility of falling totally flat, as things often seem to do when it comes to grand announcements.
And yet… I glance down at the cake batter I’ve been stirring. I want to have fun. I want to beexcited. I may have started this pregnancy dragging my feet, if not downright kicking and screaming, but now? I want to make moments we can look back on and remember with a smile.
“Dinner,” I say firmly and am met with another round of groans, these a little more good-natured, or so I choose to believe.
Eventually, everyone drifts away to various chores or activities, and only Josh is left, picking the slices of red pepper out of the salad I made.
“Hey.” I slap his hand, sort of playfully, and he grimaces, sort of jokingly.
“Okay, okay.” He steps back from the salad, hands up in the air. “Hey, I invited Mike the Prepper to dinner.”
I stop slicing a cucumber to stare at him in surprise. “What?”
He shrugs. “I was putting the trash out earlier, and he stopped by in his truck and introduced himself. I told him I’d already heard about him.” He grins while I frown.
“I hope you didn’t call him Mike the Prepper to his face.”
“Who do you think I am?” Josh pulls an outraged face, his eyes dancing. “I told himyoucall him that.”
“Josh!” I know he’s kidding, but still. Our new neighbor owns alotof guns.
“He seems nice,” Josh says. “Very friendly. He’s going to bring a salad to dinner.”
I imagine the kind of salad Mike will bring—field greens foraged from the woods, no doubt, chickweed and ramp greens, wild watercress, and who knows what else. It will probably be delicious; meanwhile, my kids, at least some of them, will struggle to so much as nibble on a freshly foraged leaf.
“When is he coming?”
“Tomorrow night.” Josh cocks his head. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“Yes, of course.” I don’t know why I’m so hesitant about having him over. Mike the Prepper is friendly. He’s just a little… intense. And I have a feeling he’ll lecture us on how to get ready for the apocalypse all through the meal. But then, I tell myself, it’s always good to be prepared.
As for being prepared tonight… I put the cake in the oven and surreptitiously make some pink icing, hoping no one wanders into the kitchen and notices the color. I’m probably making way too big a deal of this, but it really does feel nice to be excited.
