Nostalgia is everywhere. My first night sleeping over. Our first morning coffee. Our first argument...
He picks up another ping-pong ball and puts it in my navel, which has become an outie, but has a small ring around it that can hold a ball – but barely. The white, lightweight orb nestles in place, and then–boing!
It jumps up an inch and rolls down my right side.
“I love playing ping-pong with my unborn kids.”
“I'm surprised.”
“You are?”
“So far, they're beating you.”
“No one's keeping score,” he mutters, but I can tell that's a lie. He bends forward, trying to balance two balls in my belly button, when suddenly, Lefty's elbow pokes up and the ball hits Andrew in the eye.
We descend into laughter, my side hurting from giggling so hard that Righty kicks my ribs. It’s like he’s curling little monkey toes around them.
Warm, big palms cover the sides of my belly, like a football player sizing up a watermelon.
“Lefty got you.”
“Or maybe Righty?” I question, poking the right side and receiving no response.
“You mean Joshua did.”
“I am not naming our kid Josh. Can you imagine? The real Josh would die and go to heaven. I'm not giving him the satisfaction.”
“Well, we're not naming either one James. We have to find some good options.”
“We have time,” I assure him, but he's right. I hate to admit it.
“Not much. We at least need a shortlist.”
I stop him right there. “And we are not naming them Tom and Brady.”
“What's wrong with those names?”
Hard stares don't actually melt people, I've learned.
Too bad.
“How about Lexington and Concord? We could call them Lex and Cord for short.” This is an old joke. He pokes my belly and laughs.
“Cord McCormick? Sounds like the lead in every cheap Western movie from the 1960s,” Andrew mutters.
“Lex is too close to Lex Luthor,” I add.
His stomach growls. I look at the clock. 11:46 a.m. on a Sunday.
He brings up food before I do, which is rare these days. “I made brunch reservations for us.”
“You did? Where?”
“Consuela's.” He holds out his palm. “And before you protest, the doctor said you needed to gradually come off bed rest. You’ve been so good. You can handle the walk.”
“I've been so bored! Carol hardly needs me. She took over at work and is running the division like she was born to do it.”
“And you come off bed rest tomorrow,” he says softly. “You're supposed to walk a little.”
“Still no sex,” I say sadly.
He's uncharacteristically silent for a while, and then:
“Dr. Jeffs said you could walk to Consuela's. Use the elevator.”
“When did he say that?”
“When I called two days ago to make the reservation at Connie's.”
“You mean when Gina called.”
“No. I called.”
“You? You actually called a place? Dialed a phone and spoke to someone? Wow, Andrew. I had no idea you were evolving like that. Next thing I know, you'll learn to pump gas.”
“Let's not be too hasty.”
My phone buzzes. I grab it from the nightstand. It's Mom.
Can you send me the link to all the baby products you've ordered for the twins? The Consumer Product Safety Commission just declared some products hazardous to babies and I want to double check your list.
I read Andrew the text and he shakes his head. “Good old Pam.”
“Yeah.” I type a response and include the link. It's easier to go along with her than to fight. “She's so cautious and analytical.”
“Nothing wrong with that. She also seems to have more energy since the new treatments took hold.”
I nod, finish the text, and snuggle into his arms, my belly rising up like I'm Mauna Kea, emerging from the oceans as tectonic plates shift.
Which is a good metaphor for what is happening in my body and heart.
“Who knew it was Lyme disease this entire time?”
“In a way, Dad did.”
“James is so weird,” I blurt out. “He treats you three so differently than he treats me, or Shannon, or Pam. And then there are the women he dates...”
“You mean the gold digger Barbies?”
“Andrew!”
“What? Dad calls them that.”
“He does? I had no idea he was so self-aware.”
Andrew's cheek is pressed against my belly. When he laughs, the vibration radiates through to the babies, who both suddenly move at the same time.
“I think he considers it a badge of honor.”
“Why does he like my mom so much?” I ask as Andrew pokes Righty.
“I don't know.”
“She's nothing like Elena, right? Our mothers aren't similar.”
“Not one bit. My mom would have gotten along with Pam really well, but they're different. Mom was more social. More into networking and parties and gatherings. She would have found Pam's analytical side charming, though.”
“Your father certainly does.”
He sits up, questions in those brown eyes. Will our boys’ eyes be his shade of brown or mine? Whose nose will they get?
“Nothing's going on there,” Andrew says slowly. “We know that. No worries about becoming accidental stepsiblings.”
“Not for want of trying on James's part.”
Andrew goes still. “What?”
“Come on. You know he likes my mom.”
“My dad isn't attracted to anyone who was born before Clinton was president.”
“So,” I say, holding up my empty glass of water. “My feet have fallen asleep, I have to pee, I'm dehydrated, and I really want to pig out on brunch. How much time do we have to make it to Consuela's?”
Andrew looks at the clock. He has to stretch over my belly, which gets a not-so-gratuitous kiss along the way. “Five minutes ago. We had to leave five minutes ago.”
“Good thing Consuela loves you.”
“Not as much as you do.”
I toss a ping-pong ball at him. “Okay. Let's walk there. Haven't had a contraction in two weeks.”
He looks outside at the sunny day, blue sky inviting us to come join it. Hesitation isn't in his nature, but his shoulders square and I realize why he's not saying anything.
“I know. There are wasps out. We don't have
