Deck the Palace (A Duched Series Holiday Novella), page 9
Plus, they get along with all of the children and one another, making family events or galas or unexpected outings to the beach much more manageable.
“Speaking of Georgia,” I cautiously segue, grateful for a clear path to procced to my announcement.
“Ohgodno,” grumbles Kris prior to sitting up straight. “Please, do not tell me she is quitting. Please, I beg of you, do not tell me we are about to embark on another eye-gouge worthy round of interviews for her replacement.”
“Not…necessarily?”
Confusion crinkles his brow.
“Upon hiring her – if you recall – she explicitly expressed her preference in providing care for no more than two children daily. Holidays and other large family gatherings were allowed to be exceptions.”
“Correct.” He enthusiastically nods. “And we understood. And agreed. And discussed our plans were for no more than two.”
“Yes.” One sip for courage is taken. “Our plans were for no more than two…”
“Correct.”
“Our plans have always been no more than two…”
“Correct.”
“Our plans…” the over stretching out of the word occurs in hopes he catches on, “have changed, and I am hoping she is willing to stay on in spite of that.”
“Changed how?” Kris mindlessly mutters in perplexity. “How could they have possibly changed? We still have two children to look after. The only way our plans could change would be if we had three and the only way to have three would be if-” the realized information widens his gaze to the edges of the room. “If…” His jaw bobs but more words don’t escape. “If…”
“If I were pregnant.”
“Which…” my husband leans slightly to one side, “…you…” he lifts his eyebrows, “…are?”
I hesitate to nod yet eventually do instead of having more tea to wash away my own dawdling disbelief.
“Bloodyhell,” he quietly scoffs. “How?! How is that possible?!”
“We have two children, Kris. You know damn well how that is possible.”
Per usual my cheekiness gets him chortling.
Relaxing.
Convinces his apparent panic to momentarily subside.
“I meant,” we each turn to completely face one another, “I thought you were no longer capable.” He shifts the tea out of my hands to have a swig for himself. “Is that not what you went to visit the physician about last week? To discuss the P word?”
Not hitting him with a sarcastic scowl is impossible.
“Don’t you dare look at me like that. You,” he casually gestures in my direction, “were the one who literally cut off the tip of my tie at breakfast for saying half of the word.”
“One, that tie was hideous-”
“Kellan bought me that tie.”
“To laugh at you.” Taking back my cup for my own sip occurs next. “He’s done it before.”
An unhappy hum is presented.
“Two, menopause and perimenopause are very different things.”
“Yet have very similar names.”
“And three-”
“I am praying that that is the last number on the list, so I do not have to retrieve a pen.”
“I went to discuss my negative pregnancy test after missing a period.” Relocating the mug to the white nightstand is accompanied by my further clarifying. “I – brazenly – assumed what I believed to be the most likely possibility, which would be me entering the ‘transitional phrase’ they call perimenopause; however, it turns out, I actually am pregnant and simply have terrible luck with home pregnancy tests.”
Kris cringes upon reflection. “The amount of times you peed on a stick for Olivia, I thought for certain she was a UTI.”
Light laughter escapes us both as the memory of discovering I had somehow managed to do everything possible to receive false negatives barrels into us.
Afterward, my husband reaches over to lovingly cup my hand. “So, we are pregnant once more? You are not going through P and M or whatever S may stand for?”
Resisting the urge to smirk is impossible. “We? Do…you…plan to appear as though you are smuggling a zorb underneath your cocktail dress, suddenly gag at the sight of custard, or demand time with the horses whenever the baby kicks because it is unarguably the only thing that calms it down?”
“Livy is going to be an Olympic equestrian,” Kris definitively declares, leaving no room for a rebuttal. “The Lawsons have already put me in contact with a respectable coach.”
Ridiculous.
Extra ridiculous because our My Little Pony cannot go an entire day without fumbling over something.
I was concerned she may have an inner ear issue.
Her child physician – and the specialist Kris demanded we see – came to the conclusion that she does not.
Our beautiful little brunette – one of the only in the family – is simply clumsy.
Which is also not ideal for anything in t-ball.
“You do know her merely being afraid of marriage and using horses to flee like Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride is also a possibility, yes?”
“No.”
“No, you do not know it is a possibility, or no you do not accept it?”
“Yes.”
Additional laughter on a headshake is all I’m capable of.
And all he needs for a conversational shift.
Kris lifts my hand and places a gentle kiss on the back of it. “We are pregnant, sweetheart, because I will never allow you to go through pregnancy alone. Just as I was there for the itchy spells and the hemorrhoids and the water birth exploration options, previously, I will be there for whatever our next little heir or any heir after them brings.”
“No.” One sternly pointed finger lands near his sharp featured face. “This is the last heir that is coming out of this future queen’s body. I am already at the point where the complication risks are quite high for both me and our child – given my age – plus I would appreciate not spending all of our forties changing diapers and potty training. Understood?”
“Understood, sweetheart.” Warm chuckles precede him tenderly brushing his lips against mine. “Completely understood.”
Kristopher
This. Is. Mindboggling.
And I do not mean the fact that I got my wife pregnant.
Again.
Again, without actually trying, just to be clear.
I mean the amount of snow that has blanketed the palace grounds between when it started during the Ugly Sweater Movie Party last night and us joining the Snow Day event, the following afternoon.
Truthfully, I do not recall having this much snow on the ground since we were boys.
An unexpected snowball suddenly pegs me in my grey and white jacket covered shoulder prompting me to throw a glare over it at my younger brother, Kellan, who immediately flashes a shit eating grin.
Correction.
Since we were young boys.
In spite of our age, we still have our very childlike moments, which I honestly hope always stays.
Even once I’m king.
As much as I want to be like our father – who is a great man and has done great things and made great changes and fantastic progress – I do not want to be our father.
Ruling at one point was his entire existence.
Who he was.
What he did.
What he woke up for.
Dedication to the country you influence and control should be important, it certainly should dictate a great deal of what you do; however, there has to be more to life than laws and politics and societal structure that is often outdated.
There has to be more to get out of bed for.
And there is.
Family.
He just took a bit to recall that after Mum died.
And…I will never admit it to where the little goblin who is throwing more snowballs near me can hear…but he is to thank for that.
Had he not done what his rebellious ass always does and introduced a dumpster fire of anarchy into our lives, our father would likely still be the shell of the man he was when she was alive.
I thank Kellan for snapping him out of that.
I also envy him.
That is power.
That is influence.
That is what I fear I do not, nor will I ever, possess.
I have the poise and the grace the kingdom needs.
It’s the charm and confidence I lack.
Both of which the mother of my children – born and unborn – has in spades.
“Your aim is shite,” Soph taunts from where she’s sitting at the patio table beside me and Brie, Kellan’s wife. “A first-year two-way midfielder that lacks sight in one eye could have hit Kris at least twice by now.”
His jaw drops to his white snow boots.
“Eşref Armağan could hit him with more paint than you did snow, and the man was born without eyes,” Brie adds to the mocking on a lift of her Dear Santa hot cocoa mug.
“My wife,” grouses my brother in the distance. “My support.”
“Actually, one eye failed to develop while the other was stunted and severely damaged,” Guy Angelo, one of Brie’s best friends and members of our extended family, corrects. “However, I must agree. If Eşref were in a competition with you, I would bet my holiday bonus on him rather than you.”
“Godparent to my daughter,” he childishly whines.
“Our daughter,” my sister-in-law argues back, “meaning agreeing with either of us is acceptable.” Post a sip, she sasses, “Except in this case because agreeing with you would be supppperrrr wrong. You suck so hard at throwing snowballs.”
“And making them,” is added by me on a thumb kick to the missed mess. “Why are they shaped like aubergines?” An outraged squeak encourages the poking to continue. “They are supposed to be spheres.” My finger draws the lines in the air. “Which are the circle structures, in case you got stuck under the slide that day of primary school.”
“Ohmygod, Kellan, do you not know that?” Brie further mocks between sips. “Do you need to join Kendall on her next lesson of shapes and colors?”
His slow headshake is abruptly interrupted by my nephews unexpected arrival.
“Honk! Honk!” calls out Cliff alongside letting a toy truck roll through the space between his feet. “Onward to dog village!”
Dog village, I assume is where our collection of canines are all congregated chasing around FJ or cuddling with Uncle Trenton – the most adamant animal lover in spite of his insistence otherwise.
While Cliff walks around – given that he is in uni and not primary school sized – Kalum, one of Kellan’s twins, continues straight through prompting my brother to widen his stance so that there’s room. “Honk! Honk!”
“I see I am a mountain you must pass through,” good naturedly jokes the man we were just mocking.
“Like a better dressed member of Mount Rushmore,” Brie calls out.
“I know in my heart of heart’s that was intended to be a backhanded compliment,” he grouses as Little K, my oldest crawls through, “however, due to this being the season of love-”
“That is Valentine’s Day,” Guy interjects.
“-and togetherness-”
“Again,” my wife sniggers, “Valentine’s Day.”
“I am going to simply focus on the compliment rather than why Santa should be giving you coal for Christmas instead of an invitation to an underground Art Rave in which being airbrushed is required.”
Brie’s gasp practically shakes the whole table. “That’s coming to Doctenn?!”
“Rortaverian to be precise,” he announces at the same time he scoops up Killian who has just finished passing by his feet. “And since we will be in their territory, Uncle Trenton and Aunt Paislee have agreed to watch the children in order for us to attend.” Ki unhappily fights against being in his father’s arms. “Assuming you start behaving so that you do not end up on Santa’s naughty list.”
“Pretty sure I’ve been browsing real estate there,” Brie teases prior to sticking out her tongue.
“I rent a time share,” my wife playfully adds.
“Kellan has owned property there since he was the twins’ age.”
“That is not-” his sentence becomes severed due to him shouting, “Ou! Why are you biting me?!”
“Perhaps he does not like your aftershave,” I tease, reaching for my own mug.
“Likely because he does not want to be held,” Guy informs, years of expertise in the area of childhood education and studies outweighing everyone else’s combined.
Unfortunately, him and his husband, Stephen Rhodes, are childless.
Adoption – even with royalty ties to support you – is difficult.
Too difficult.
Too difficult to the point I am working with Kellan on a presentation to present to Father on ways we can adjust laws and regulations that would not undo the standards so much as be more accommodating and realistic. The way things are now are not only outrageous for people like Guy and Stephen – who want a child as well as could financially and emotionally support one – but they are a drain on the country’s resources in our attempts to foster an unfathomable amount of youth.
Youth who we have no space for in the country established programs leading to them becoming homeless or worse.
Kellan’s organizations do their best to combat these issues, yet in truth it is like putting a Band-Aid on a severed limb.
Yes, it is something; however, it is equally nothing.
Policies need to change.
And I would rather not wait until I officially have the title to begin them.
Especially, not with another heir on the way.
Bloodyhell, I am having another child.
I cannot believe I am this fortunate.
“Use your words,” Kellan encourages, Killian who is cradling his dump truck close to his chest. “Or your signs.”
“It is not about an inability to communicate,” Guy casually informs. “It is actually not about communication at all.”
“Then what the bloody hell is it?” my brother loudly gripes.
“Boundaries,” the Headmaster of Kellan’s orphanage explains. “Killian is at a point where he wants to know what the consequences to his actions are much like learning that the stove is indeed hot by touching it. The difficulty lies in enforcing consistent consequences because everyone responds differently to being bitten.”
“So…what are we to do besides reminding him that teeth are for food not people?” Brie defeatedly investigates.
“We bit back,” Uncle Fredrick announces on a chortle upon his arrival with Father. “FJ was quite a tooth menace until the day I bit the little bugger back. That was his first lesson in FAFO.”
“And a lesson he keeps exploring,” Father warmly jeers as he delivers a pat to his middle brother’s brown puffer jacket covered back. “Much like my own.”
“In other words,” Brie lifts her mug at the same time her husband strolls towards us, “this is Kellan’s fault.”
“I will cheers to that,” impishly escapes me.
“Here, here,” Soph snickers and joins the rest of us in lifting our beverages.
Becoming a father once more is exciting.
Not being able to drink alcohol, coffee, or a London Fog is depressing.
However, I meant what I said to her earlier.
She is not in this alone.
She has never been in this alone.
We made the child together.
We will go through the process of growing it together.
And then we will raise it together.
That has always been my declaration and even when a title change for both of us occurs, it will not change.
Country over family is not the man I will ever become.
I do hope this go around we play a bit more George Michael than Disturbed.
I still am not entirely sold that it is healthy for my preschooler to fall asleep so peacefully to deathcore.
“Dadddddd!” Little K calls to me, rushing over. “Is it finally time for the sledding race?!”
“Hat,” Soph lovingly scolds. “Over. Your. Ears.”
“But Mummmmm,” he whines while tugging the accessory down with his truck free hand, “it makes my ears itchy.”
“And you with an ear infection makes Mum witchy.” The snarky rebuttal gets the group snickering. “Which is worse?”
He theatrically pouts, lithesome seven-year-old frame, looking eerily similar to old photos of myself.
It is wild to have your offspring look as though he leapt out of your childhood photo album; although, that is admittedly where the chip off the ol’ block ceases.
Keegan has all of my looks and none of my interests.
At his age…I liked to read fantasy novels about far away kingdoms run by gnomes or giants or gargoyles.
He likes to watch documentaries about ancient civilizations and space and Mr. Rogers.
I was a huge fan of LEGOS.
He is very into pirate ships.
Kellan and I were practically born into lacrosse jerseys.
He will not stop begging for hockey camp.
I was mischievous while rather reserved.
He is outspoken with little interest in causing trouble just for the sake of it.
Do not get me wrong.
I love my son.
I would never tell him who to be or how to be.
It is just very…difficult trying to…connect…to someone so…different than you who came from you.
This does not mean I will stop trying.
I will never stop trying to bond with my boy.
“I think it is a brilliant time for the sled races,” Father jovially proclaims. “Go get your cousins and your wooders and we will meet you at the foot of Wolfe’s path in just a moment.”
Little K immediately curls his fingers into a victory fist, gives a solid rock, and runs back in the direction he came.
“He’s going to be the death of us,” my wife sighs in obvious exasperation. “I just know it.”
“All parents believe that,” Father sweetly reassures. “It is quite normal.”
“I certainly did,” Uncle Fredrick cheekily chuckles, odd color concoction heading for his lips. “Honestly, still do.” He gives the beverage an apprehensive sneer. “I have no idea if he actually believes this combination of pear brandy, gin, and a cinnamon stick is palatable or if it’s merely meant to mask poison that somehow tastes more awful.”
