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“Absolutely not, baby. I’mpregnant. Notill.”
I hoped.
Leighton threw his hands up. “Okay, but you’ll …”
“… Yes, you know I will, baby. Please don’t worry. But you could get out of bed and start applying to Ivy League primary schools.”
“Ha, ha.”
“Baby? Let’s call Mom and Dad this afternoon and tell them—but swear them to silence. Okay? But let’snottell the uncles and aunties yet. Here’s what we should do instead …”
He listened. He loved it, “I’m on it. Easy and fun!”
He laughed and laughed. As I left the room, my mad inventor was rubbing his hands together with glee.
Leighton came down to the bakery later for our morning breakfast ritual.
Alex looked at him oddly.
Daddy-to-be got it, “She’s throwing up, right?”
My baby knew. Before I did. I hated when he did that.
We swore Alex and Amy to secrecy. Zippered lips for them as well, until we gave them the green light to talk about it to anyone.
Leighton speed-ordered Auntie and Uncle, Gramma and Grampa caps and t-shirts, and invited the whole clan to our place the following weekend.
Mom and Dad had zipped their lips with no small measure of delight at being the only ones in on the secret. They expressed surprise and appreciation that they, too, got caps and tees.
The announcement was a hit. Everyone had plans for our firstborn, or so it seemed!
I poked Leighton, “You see? Aren’t you glad I told you to register the baby for Ivy League early? Davie and Roberta woulda been all over it before you knew what hit you.”
My man appreciated my joke.
Alex and Amy were great those first few weeks, especially Alex with all the food ingredients that bothered me (don’t make me say that I got nauseous for two whole months of mornings!) and had me racing to the back toilets.
I settled at long last, though and my baking schedule was as easy and relaxing as ever.
Continuing to teach the kids kickboxing helped keep me from gaining too much; it kept me active.
Leighton: Seven-ish Years Later
“Mahhh-Meee!”
Molly was just like her mother. Samantha had never liked my Special Spaghetti Recipe, either. Hmm. So odd. It was … spaghetti. Everyone loved spaghetti, right?
Samantha came into the kitchen. “Hey, handsome.”
“Hey, beautiful.”
Molly was dragging her by the hand and pointing at me, her mean ol’ Daddy.
Molly said, “Mommy, no! Daddy wants to make his ‘Pecial ‘Ghetti Repisee. I don't want it. It's icky! Tell him NO!”
Samantha smirked.
“Well, Molly, Daddy is simply challenging you. You know how Daddy loves to invent things?”
