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He comes back juggling three sippy cups and two mugs of steaming coffee. He carefully sets down the mugs then passes out the correct cup to the corresponding kid. Lord help us if we mix up the cups. The wrong color could set the mood for the entire day.
I take a pancake from the stack and set it on Poppy’s plate, then cut it into bite size pieces and pour syrup on top. Bacon and sausage are also on the table and I pick up a piece of bacon —a bit on the crispy side— and set it next to the pancake bites.
Poppy licks her lips and picks up the bacon with her chubby fingers and swirls it in the lake of syrup. She puts it in her mouth, leaving a stream of syrup in its wake, and says, “mmmm” with a giggle.
My face lights up from her pure innocence and I look up to see the same expression on Roman's face. Only he’s watching me and not Poppy.
I quickly look away and move to help the other two with their breakfast, but I notice their plates are already full and they’re focused on cutting into their own pancakes.
Hunter’s tongue pokes out between his teeth as he saws the knife back and forth, working his pancake into mush. Helene is slowly and meticulously cutting a small piece so as not to disrupt the rest of her pancake.
Boys versus girls. It’s a real thing.
“Luna,” I look up when Roman calls my name. “Please have just a little bit. I don’t like that you’re not eating.”
His eyes are pleading with me and he extends one of the mugs to me, prepared just how I like it.
I take hold of the mug and decide to have a little to appease him.
He smiles when I take the smallest pancake from the stack plus one slice of bacon and sausage, each. He knows I can’t resist breakfast meat.
We all eat with only the sounds of the kids groans of appreciation. Poppy ends up ditching her fork and uses her fingers to shovel pieces in her mouth. Her face and hands are coated in sticky syrup, and she occasionally pushes a wayward curl out of her face that ultimately ends up sticking to her head.
That’s going to be fun to clean up.
Hunter inhales his first pancake and quickly goes to work on another. Helene digs into her food with precise cuts, making the least amount of mess.
Maybe she’ll be a surgeon with that slow and steady hand.
I have no more than ten bites before I can’t stomach any more. Roman notices when I set my fork and knife down and push my plate away. He draws his brows together but says nothing. when the last bite is swallowed, I move to start cleaning up.
Before I can even stand from my chair, Roman says, “okay kidlets. Dish duty. Hunter and Helene, you’re going to help me clean the kitchen.”
He reaches out and starts piling plates on his arms like a skilled waiter.
“Daaaad,” Hunter whines.
“I don’t know how to do dishes,” Helene says with a quivering lip.
Bless her sensitive little heart.
“Well then. No time like the present to learn. C’mon.” He spins on his heel with his mini-me —Hunter— right behind him. Helene makes slower moves to follow.
She walks carefully to the kitchen, carrying her empty cup with her. She still wears her pink nightgown and fluffy unicorn slippers. Her long brown hair is a mess of waves cascading down her back.
It drapes down to her waist but I don’t have it in me to cut her beautiful hair. It’s thick with natural highlights and everything a grown woman would kill for.
In contrast to his sister, Hunter’s hair is inky black and cropped close to his head. Just like his daddy’s. He wants nothing more than to be just like his dad and copies him in every way he can. From his haircut to the way he walks is all Roman.
The twins share the same hazel eyes and tan skin, but their mannerisms couldn’t be more opposite.
My heart aches watching Roman work with the kids to clean up the breakfast mess. They’re going to miss out on moments like these as a family. They’ll have time with just dad when he has them, but I don’t know that we will do this once our divorce is final.
My throat grows tight and tears form when I think about another woman stepping into my shoes. Will she know that the twins like their PB&J on “fluffy bread” with the crust cut off? Will she be gentle when combing Poppy’s hair? Her tender head requires patience when working through her riot of curls.
Will she love my babies the way they deserve?
A little crack forms in my heart and my chest grows tight as I struggle to take a deep breath.
