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Looking at Valentina now, at her strawberry blond curls and upturned nose, listening to her breathy, lilting voice—I have everything I could ever want, and the only things that matter.
“Mommy, I’m ready to go home now,” my daughter says, launching herself into my arms after finishing with the last number.
“Me too, sweetheart. Let’s go.”
“Bye, Belly Mama,” she calls out as we begin walking back to our car.
“Bye, sis.” I say more softly. And, thank you.
Gavin is waiting for us, holding our son. At three months old, he is still nursing and ca
My life so far has been completely unpredictable. I’ve known intense joy, and piercing heartbreak. I have no idea what to expect next year or the year after that or any of the years to follow. I can only hope that I spend every day loving the man who holds my heart in his hands and the children we’re raising together.
“Hey, V,” Gavin says, looking at Valentina through the rearview mirror, “how about we go for a walk in the woods while your little brother takes a nap? I think it’s raspberries season.”
She takes her thumb out of her mouth just long enough to chortle, “I don’t like raspberries.”
I laugh, casting a sideways glance at the beautiful man beside me. Even after all this time, just drinking in the sight of his tawny hair, strong jaw, and wide, warm mouth makes my stomach flutter. “That’s exactly what your daddy said, too.”
“Don’t forget this, Daddy,” Valentina says, tucking the poppy flower she picked from outside into the popsicle stick vase her brother, Declan, made at school.
“Never,” I assure her, placing it on the breakfast tray the three of us have spent the past hour assembling. Sparing a final glance at the flour-strewn counters and sink full of dishes, I pick up the tray and grin. “Last one to wish Mom a happy birthday is a rotten egg!”
There is a split second where they both look at me, then each other. And then they’re off, Valentina’s blond ringlets streaming behind her and Declan’s strawberry curls glinting gold in the morning sun as they race out of the kitchen, down the hall, and then scramble up the stairs.
I’m close enough behind them to see Valentina reach our bedroom door first. She hurls it open, allowing Declan to squeeze in front of her, then they both chorus loudly, “Happy Birthday, Mommy!”
Poppy obviously heard the stampede. She is propped against the middle of the headboard, the covers tucked around her swollen belly and a wide, beaming smile stretched across her beautiful face. “Has it really been another year already? I asked time to slow down when I blew out last year’s birthday candles.” She holds out her arms and Valentina and Declan climb in beside her.
Declan tilts his head to the side. “Your birthday wish didn’t come true?”
Her eyes flick to mine before returning to our son and then our daughter. “I’m just being silly, sweetheart. All of my wishes have come true.” Her voice cracks a little and my own throat tightens in response.
We have come so far, Poppy and I, only to arrive back where we started. I hated every minute of the time we were apart, all those lost years. And yet, this moment wouldn’t be possible without them. In spite of everything, we are so damn lucky.
I am so damn lucky.
Setting the breakfast tray over Poppy’s lap, Valentina points proudly at the flower. “Look, I picked a poppy just for you.”
“And I stirred the pancakes,” Declan says, then adds, “Daddy let me try flipping them, too. But I missed.”
“You were really close this time,” his sister kindly points out. “Right, Daddy?”
“Right. I bet next time you’ll get it in the pan.”
Declan stretches a hand over Poppy’s belly. “Do you think the babies will like pancakes, Mommy?”
“I’m sure they will,” Poppy says. “As soon as they get a few teeth.”
“Drink this, Mommy.” Valentina picks up the glass of orange juice and lifts it toward Poppy. “Make them wake up.”
Poppy meets my eyes as she sips the juice. Waking up the babies has become a morning ritual. After what happened with her first pregnancy, she is vigilant about tracking their movements. But she is further along now than she was before. At just over thirty weeks, the chance of her delivering healthy twins is high, and getting higher every day.
Twins.
I still can’t believe it. We started trying to expand our family when Declan was three. After a year, when Declan’s kindergarten registration forms arrived in the mail, Poppy made an appointment with a specialist who suggested taking fertility drugs to increase our chances. They came with an increased chance of twins, too.
I wasn’t sure we should. Raising two healthy children with the love of my life, every day is a gift. I worried we were tempting fate. Asking too much.
But Poppy has so damn much love to give. “Let’s do it,” she’d said. “The worst that can happen is nothing.”
Months later, I’ve realized she was bluffing. So many things can go wrong. We can lose the babies. I can lose the three of them.
I love numbers. Complicated algorithms. Quadratic equations. Statistics and probabilities. But even I ca
Thankfully, Poppy’s pregnancy, though considered high-risk given her history, has gone smoothly.
Valentina and Declan each have a hand pressed to Poppy’s belly, their faces pinched in concentration as they anxiously wait for their siblings to appease them. Seconds tick by and Poppy’s expression shifts from amused to worried. I reach beneath the covers to squeeze one of her feet. “Give them a few m—”
“I got kicked!” Declan a
“Me, too,” Valentina says.
But I continue to watch Poppy carefully, knowing she won’t breathe easy until she’s sure she feels movement from both twins. It’s only when she puts down the juice and whispers to me, “we’re good” that I exhale the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
Poppy tucks into her breakfast, feeding bites from the mountain of pancakes on her plate, doused with butter and syrup and whipped cream, to Declan and Valentina and me for every one she takes herself.
Fuck, I’m happy.
Just sitting here on this bed, in this room, drinking in the sight of my family, drowning in the sound of their laughter.
Sometimes it hits me like this, hard. A punch in the gut that leaves me feeling completely hollowed out and yet bursting with all kinds of… things that don’t have shape or weight to them, but are still so damn heavy.
It shouldn’t surprise me though. Poppy has always done this to me. Made me feel. Made me want. Made me need.
The day I met her in the woods divided my life into two parts. Before Poppy and After Poppy.
Before Poppy, life sucked. After Poppy, aside from a few altercations with my foster parent’s douchebag son, life was good. Really good. And every second spent with Poppy was fucking awesome.
Until the day my mom showed up. She was a mess, like she always was after one of my father’s rages. But she’d left him, and I was all she had. If I didn’t go with her, I knew she’d lose her resolve and slink back to him.