This is a little story I thought to write on Mother's Day. It's set during the same timeframe of this story, but is more like a separate little outtake. I will update the rest of gender reveal party shortly. Hope you enjoy this in the meantime! You have all been so wonderful to me. I so appreciate it! xox Ash

My life started the day after Mother's Day. Elliot, Mia and I had lunch with my parents that Sunday in May 2011—the 8th before the 9th—but I wasn't in the mood for celebrating. I never was. Grace made a comment as to which one of us would give her a grandchild first. Hands down, they all thought it would be Elliot by mistake. I knew it would absolutely never be me. I drove home that evening well before the others and went to bed alone. I woke up the same. I thought I liked quiet mornings, but looking back they were never really quiet. Quiet comes from peace; silence is deafening. It was a dreary, bleak, cold day that Monday after Mother's Day and it remained that way until a stumble at my door brought part to the clouds and noise to my world. And the following Mother's Day my wife would be a new mother to my son—Grace's first grandchild. What a difference a Mother's Day makes.

#######

"Shhh, be very quiet, we don't want to wake your mother," I say in a conspiratorial whisper as I carry Phoebe on my back down the stairs with Teddy in front of us. It's six o'clock on Mother's Day morning and we're on a secret mission—Operation Make Mommy Breakfast in Bed.

"Yeah, be shush Chester," Phoebe says, with a finger to her lips, to the little rodent sitting on her shoulder in a yellow polka dot jumpsuit and caterpillar slippers. Fitting— he looks pissed that anyone dared to drag him from his cocoon this early. I'm not quite sure why we did, but Phoebe assured me he has quality "cook boy" skills. The way he lives off Barbie, wears Versace leather, and dates around it's more like "fuck boy". Whatever the case, he better not shit a raisin on the oatmeal in revenge.

"Teddy, quit hopping down the steps!" I whisper yell as he takes them rabbit style. "You'll break your neck!"

"But, I hopped all of them down yesterday and my neck is still together."

"Well, if you walked a tight rope over Niagara Falls in a lightning storm and miraculously made it across within inches of your life, would you do it again?"

"Yeah, prolly," he shrugs. I shake my head. Why aren't my kids scared of anything? And although it means quadruple security and surveillance and strokes for Dad in their teen years, this fact makes me smile.

"So here's the game plan, troops," I say as we reach the kitchen. "Pancakes, bacon and English Breakfast tea—your mother's favorites." I have to smile remembering that first morning she made me pancakes. She was so cute dancing around in my shirt. I was painfully in love, even if I didn't know it myself at the time. I had a flash of hope that morning that she would dance like that, with me, forever. But, no way did I ever picture anything like this.

"I want to make Mommy gummy bear pancakes!" Phoebe says as I put her down to sit on the center island. "And then I'm gonna put the brown chocolate sprinkles for hair and blue Skittles for her eyes and red ones for her lip parts to make it smile up at her like it's saying 'happy to be your breakfast, Mommy'."

"That sounds lovely. But, how are you going to make all that stick?" I ask.

She scrunches her nose and thinks about it for a second, and then with all the assurance and confidence of a future CEO, comes to her decision—"peanut butter."

"But, Dad!" Teddy says, with angst and plea. "I wanna make Mommy my most famous cheesy crunchy tater recipe ever!"

"Like hash browns?" I ask.

"They're potato chips with cream cheese stuck to the tops."

"So, like Philadelphia nachos?" I ask.

He nods, though I'm sure he has no idea what I'm talking about.

"When have you ever eaten or made that?" I ask.

"I didn't yet; I just thought of it like right now."

"Then how can it be the most famous recipe ever?"

"'Cause I don't have any others. So, it's famous because it's above nothing." What is this, the Kardashians of breakfast?"

"Fair point well made," I say. "Fine. At least that should satisfy your mother's salt and dairy cravings." Every night before bed she's been drinking a full glass of milk and eating a pickle. And not one of those little guys either—the big whoppers you can barely get your lips around. I gladly encourage this evening ritual, because there is nothing hotter than watching my pregnant wife take down that thing.  The way that juice dribbles and sometimes hits her breasts. And then with the milk! Fuck, I may have to video tape it for future use.

"Why do babies like such weirdo stuff, Daddy?" Phoebe asks as I pull out the various bowls and pans I think we'll use. I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing, aside from watching some teased-to-the-heavens blonde woman on the food network last week—who called herself "Morning Rae"—make an elaborate juice smoothie that looked like the upchuck byproduct of a rough night of strawberry daiquiris, hangover McDonalds, and the grass ingested when fallen over drunk in the lawn. Trust me, she was no "Rae of sunshine", she was more like "who's afraid of the dark". I also tried to pay attention yesterday when Gail was making breakfast, but I didn't want Ana to get too suspicious of me staring at Gail's eggs.

"That's a good question," I say. "I'm not sure, but all babies want something oddly different." Oh—a juicer dish thing! I pull it out. I saw two oranges in the fridge. That should be more than enough for a pitcher of fresh juice.

"What did I want for cravies when I was in Mommy's belly?" Phoebe asks.

"You, princess, had me go out after midnight for white anchovy and double garlic pizza."  I can tell you there was no sex on those nights. Lord, people at the office smelled it on me the next day after a shower and aftershave and all I did was sleep next to her. Oh wait, yeah there was probably sex anyway, too. Like garlic would keep me away.

"Is 'chovies like fancy cheese?" she asks.

"No, it's like little smelly salty fish."

"Eww! On my pizza?" she asks and I nod. "Geez, I was weird when I was young!"

I look over and see Teddy is rummaging through the refrigerator. He pulls out a block of cream cheese, sets it down on the floor, then goes in again.

"What are you doing over there?" I ask as he pulls out the biggest package of bacon I've ever seen. Does our family really eat that much that Gail has to buy warehouse style?

"I'm gonna make the bacon," Teddy says.

"Oh no, you're not!" I say.

"How come?"

"Because you're not doing anything that requires your hands near hot grease or fire. I'll make the bacon and you can help by observation."

"Is obser-ti-tation a job?" he asks.

"That's more than half of Taylor's day."

"Do you know how to cook the bacons Daddy?" Phoebe asks.

"Sure, it's simple..." Gulp. "You take a pan." What does a pan look like? Oh yeah, the flat skillet things. I pick one up, but I'm not sure if it's a wide short sided pot or a pan with aspirations. What constitutes a pot? Is there criteria? Oh who the fuck knows; it'll work. And the other stereotypical pans look too small to hold all my pork. "Then, you turn on the fire." I place the pan on a burner and put it on high. "Well, I do, not you. Don't go anywhere near the fire." I open the package—which I double-check is nitrate free— and have no idea how many to choose, so I just throw them all in. I'm glad I chose the biggest pan. I wonder how many pieces that is. Oh well, it's Mother's Day.

"What if she smells the bacon?" Teddy asks.

"Trust me, if she suspects it's me cooking, she'll think she's dreaming." I take Teddy's hand and lead him over to the sink. "Come on, we have to wash our hands," I say.

"Why do I gotta wash them, but not Phoebe?"

"Because boys is dirtier 'cause they're made from slug slime and puppy fur!" she says.

"Why would I wanna wash that off then?" he asks.

"It's because you were holding the bacon and bacon has germs on it," I say and triple wash our hands together. I don't want any swine-to-man transmitted diseases going on here. This isn't Kate's bedroom in college after all.

"Eww, bacon's full of bugs!" Phoebe squeals.

"Cool!" Teddy says.

"I don't want to eat bacon bugs!" Phoebe says.

"It's fine once they're all cooked off."

"I have to get my chips!" Teddy says like it's April 14th at a stroke before midnight and the taxes are due. 

"I need to get my 'gredients, too!" Phoebe says hopping down and they fight it out to open the pantry door.

"Kids, come on! There's enough room in there for everyone!" That pantry's so big I could rent it out as a luxury New York City apartment.

"I found chocolate covered gummy bears!" Phoebe says. 

"I found pickle flavored chips!" Teddy says.

"And pink heart sprinkles, too!" I can hear her jumping up and down. "I didn't ever know it could ever be so good!"

Geez, it's like the gold rush in there.

"Did you find everything you need?" I ask Phoebe as she returns to the island with an armful of stuff. She nods enthusiastically and heads back for more.

Teddy starts dragging bags of different kinds of potato chips out of the pantry and onto the floor where the cream cheese has remained this entire time. It's like a clown car of fried starch in there. Why do we have so many different brands that I've never seen before? What the hell are we doing with something advertised on the cover as extra special crinkle naturals exclusively from Maine? What the hell is a crinkle natural anyway? Potatoes with crinkles aren't natural. Or are they? I've never really looked. And why is this Maine exclusive? Do they soak them in a lobster tank or something?

"Why are you making all that on the floor?" I ask as he grabs a plate and plops down to his knees in front of his project.

"'Cause I could see it better when I'm closer to the earth." I hope Gail mopped last night. Although, I always make sure the floors are extra clean, considering everyone's always crawling around down there. Ana and I, pre-pregnancy, included.

"I got the peanut butter that's not all funny!" Phoebe says, coming out of the pantry with a huge jar.

"What's the funny peanut butter?" I ask.

"The one with the oily puddle at the top."

I look at the jar. Oh great, she's got the processed stuff with the grape jelly already included.

"Why the one with the jelly?"

"I think the babies should know about the good stuff right away."

"Dad, do the babies eat like fish?" Teddy asks.

"Like fish?"

"Like when Mommy eats the foods and it goes down the shoot into her tummy, do they open their mouths and eat it like the gold fish in Miss Tilly's bowl?"

"Your mother's belly is not like a fish bowl." Although, in some respects it kind of is, with all the fluid and roundness and such.

I can really smell the bacon now. It must be cooking good.

"I'm taking some from all the chip bags so Mommy could be surprised in every bite," Teddy says, so excited for his plan.

"Good idea," I say. She'll be surprised alright.

"I'm going to Paris next week, Chester," Phoebe says. I turn to see she's got the bowl on her head, pretending it's a sophisticated hat, as she eats the gummy bears. "We'll be there for the fashion shows and hot chocolate fountains. You'll have to wear your white shiny shoes. All the Paris boys do." Chester's not really listening. He's ass to the sky in the utensil container. His caterpillars are staring me down.

"Time to make the pancakes," I say.

"Yay!" She takes the bowl off her head and sets it down, then starts beating a spoon in it like a drum.

"Shhhh!" I say as I look for the pancake mix I illicitly bought last week and was hiding behind cans of California Clam Chowder nobody's touched since Phoebe was born. What the fuck is California chowder anyway— skinny shrimp in low fat milk? I think Taylor bought it; he's always had John Wayne dreams of doing war pictures in La La Land. I notice my pancake mix says it's a secret family recipe from Maine also. Who knew Maine held so many delicious secrets.

I open the bag and a poof of pancake powder flies up on my face. Phoebe and Teddy laugh. Chester even pokes his head up from the spoons to enjoy this. Of course, Dad's a clown.

"Oh you think it's funny, do you?" I shake my head demonstratively so pancake dust rains down on Phoebe and she giggles and claps her hands like it's the best thing that ever happened to her. And as I'm looking out at my children as we cook breakfast for their mother together, I'm thinking the same.

"You all won't be laughing when these delicious pancakes are made," I say as I put the mix into the bowl. What the fuck? I look at it. I thought this shit was pre-made. It's just a bunch of flour with a vague maple odor.

"Daddy, you gotta add the wet stuff," Phoebe says, of course knowing more about cooking than me.

"What's the wet stuff?" I ask.

"Pancake milk," she says.

"Where do you get pancake milk?"

"From breakfast cows."

"Well, since we don't have a breakfast cow on hand..." I look at the box. Fuck, I didn't know I needed oil, eggs and water. Why is it instant if it takes so many damn ingredients? Shouldn't you just pour it in and voila? I mean, cooking them is process enough. I may get my lawyers on this for false advertisement.

"Okay, wet ingredients," I say, looking at the back of the package again. Of course I've ripped the bag right where the directions to the ingredients are. All I can make out is—3 cup oil. I can't see what's before the three, so I'm not sure if there's some other directive I'm missing or they forgot to add the s after cup. And what kind of oil? They also say add ups water, but that's cut off , too. Plus, water has no flavor. Why would I ever add water? I go with three cups of the good olive oil. It's supposed to be the best and no one wants dry pancakes that taste like nothing.

"I wanna crack the eggs!" Phoebe says as I grab a carton from the fridge.

"No, I wanna do it!" Teddy says, jumping up from his concoction on the floor and up on a stool at the island. "I love cracking eggs!"

"Since when?" I ask.

"Since I knew there was a chance to find dinosaurs inside."

"Ahhhh!" Phoebe screams and backs away.

"There are no dinosaurs in these eggs," I say. "They're from chickens."

"Can I find chickens inside?" Teddy asks.

"Only if the rooster got past the farmer." That's happened to me twice.

"Huh?"

"Ask me again in ten years." I shake my head. "Okay, each of you crack one," I say handing them the eggs.

This was a mistake.

"I dropped it, Daddy," Phoebe says as hers lies splat beneath her.

"Here, try this one," I hand her another and move to clean hers up.

"This is cool!" Teddy crushes his egg against the side of the bowl and most of it ends up on the counter, but the rest plops on my head beneath him, dripping on me as I'm cleaning up this shit. I fear salmonella is leaking into my ear and going straight to my brain.

"Hey, watch it now," I say, wiping yolk from my head and hair with a dish towel.

"I lost shells in there," Phoebe says, pointing into the bowl.

I get up to look and she's right, she did. But, not a chunk or two. It's like it shattered into dozens of itty bitty pieces. I spend the next five minutes attempting to dig them out with an espresso spoon, but it's impossible. Once you think they're on the spoon and you've got them, they say fuck you and disappear into the egg slime again. It's enough to drive any sane person mad. And I'm not even all sane to begin with. Forget it! Before I call Flynn for self commitment papers, I scoop all of the egg part out, sacrificing some batter in the process, and start again.

"When do the flavors go in?"  Phoebe asks after I finally get two whole eggs in.

"You can do it now," I say.

She begins to pour all the gummy bears into the mix. Then she adds sprinkles.

"What's that you're adding?"I ask as she pours a bunch of red things in her hand.

"Hot Latamies," she says.

"What's that?" I look at her box—hot tamales. "This is too spicy for Mommy."

"But, it's pretty, Daddy."

"Tell you what. Why don't you just use them to make earrings on your happy face at the end."

"That's the beautifulest idea, Daddy!"

"What can I say? I'm familiar with Cartier."

"Daddy? Can I make Mommy toast?" Teddy asks.

"What? Why? We're making pancakes."

"But, I think she'd like toast, too."

"Okay, fine. Put a piece of bread in the toaster." He goes off to the pantry. "And don't put your hand in there!"

"Okay, let's stir this up!" Phoebe applauds as I start to stir with the spoon. Geez, this looks like a god awful mess. Olive oil and maple is an odd scent.

I look over to see Teddy trying to smash something down in the toaster.

"Teddy, what are you doing? I told you not to stick your hand in there!"

"I didn't stick it. I think my toast is stuck."

"Keep stirring," I hand the spoon to Phoebe who plays Betty Crocker Jr. as I move to Teddy.

"That's not bread, that's a croissant," I say, pulling the chocolate stuffed pastry out—crumbs everywhere. Like a hundred years from now they'll still be finding them.

"I thought she'd like it better."

"Well fine. But, warm it up in the microwave for thirty seconds. Not in the toaster."

"Daddy it's stirred good!" Phoebe says.

"How do you know?" I ask.

"'Cause my arm got ti-red."

"Okay, let's do this." I pull out this portable breakfast griddle thing I find under the sink and turn it on.

"How big should we make them?" I ask.

"Bigger than her head for sure," Phoebe says.

"Why's that?"

"It's more fun cause you know you ate more than your head and stuffed it full in your tummy and then you know you winned the game of life."

"Well, I think her tummy is winning the game of life all on its own right now." I pour a heaping mess of batter onto the skillet. I expected it to look rounder than this. Maybe it's all the bears. Jesus, it looks like a maple mudslide took out a Yellowstone grizzly community. I don't think she stirred that well, either. There are huge balls of flour throughout. Oh well, maybe they'll cook off.

"Dad, the bacon is cooking hard!" Teddy says.

"Don't touch it. It's fine. We want to cook off all the listeria."

"Is that the bugs?" Phoebe asks.

"Yes."

"But, Dad—"

"Teddy—" I look around. Holy shit! There's smoke shooting off of the stove.

"Don't touch the pancakes!" I say to Phoebe and run over to the bacon. Shit! "Stay back!" I grab the handle to get it off the flame.

"Damn it!" I burned the hell out of my hand.

"Daddy said a bad word!" Teddy says.

"Naughty naughty!" Phoebe says.

I turn the flame off, grab a pot holder and move the pan to a cool burner. Oh fuck. My bacon is all stuck to the pan and burnt to a crisp. I grab a spatula and try to lift the strips, but it's no use. I keep scraping and scraping... All I'm left with is blackened bits.

"Daddy, I don't think the pancakes is doing nothing," Phoebe says.

"What do you mean?"

"There's no pop pop bubbles."

"Don't touch anything!" I run over to the griddle. Shit! She's right. Nothing's happening. "What? Why aren't they cooking?" I look down. Fuck! I didn't know you had to plug it in!

Just then the fire alarm goes off.

"Daddy, what's that?" Phoebe asks.

"It's from the smoke," I say, trying to wave it away with a dish towel.

"We gotta do a fire drill!" Teddy says.

"There's no fire, it's just smoke from before," I say.

Within seconds, Taylor arrives in the room in his pajamas with a fire extinguisher. He's so up and ready for danger, that one.

"Sir! What's happening?" Taylor asks. I can't believe this man wears silky pajamas. I thought he slept on nails or upside down or something.

"I'm just cooking breakfast!" I say as the smoke begins to clear.

#######

"Happy Mother's Day!" the kids and I say as we greet Ana in the bedroom with our tray. The bacon's in bits; the pancakes are cooked, but now a bit cold; and a teacup for Twining's English Breakfast tea sits beside, bag out, of course.

"Oh, this is beautiful! I love it!" Ana says without any evidence of a thought to the contrary as I set the tray on her lap—doing my best to avoid her growing belly—and the kids climb in beside her.

"What is all this?" she asks as I sit in the edge of the bed beside them.

"Daddy and I made the pancakes," Phoebe says. "See there's your blue eyes," she points to the Skittles. "And your red smile and brown sprinkle hair."

"The Hot Tamale earrings were Dad's idea," I say and she smiles.

"This is the most beautiful, Phoebe!" she says.

"And this is my recipe," Teddy says. "You gotta taste it!"

Ana, being the bravest, most wonderful mother I could possibly know takes a full potato chip covered in cream cheese and puts it in her mouth without a moment's hesitation.

"This is delicious, Teddy! You're such a good cook!"

"He learned it from me." I wink and she smiles with a mischievously disobedient eye-roll only for me.

"Oh and little bacon crumbles!" Ana says, tasting one. Damn, I cooked that whole package and all I got was a handful of crumbs.

"Daddy set them on fire!" Teddy says. "I thought we'd have to call the firemen and ride in the truck to the hospital."

"What?!" Ana asks and Phoebe laughs at this.

"There was no fire!" I say. "Only a little smoke. It was a huge misunderstanding."

"A misunderstanding with the fire alarm?" Ana asks.

"Yes. Those things are always dramatically seeking attention."

"Oh, and you squeezed fresh juice," Ana says, looking at her little glass. How does two oranges only yield four sips?! "It's so good," she says as she drinks it, but I can see her sneak spit a seed into her napkin.

"We got you flowers, too," Phoebe says, pointing to the springtime mix in the purple vase the kids picked out at the right-hand corner of her tray.

"Yeah, 'cause Daddy says we always gotta give hearts and flowers," Teddy says.

"Daddy said that, did he?" she asks and looks at me, smiling.

"Yes, he did," I say, and I smile in return.

"Read the card we made!" Phoebe says, lifting the glittering pink construction paper up. There's a crayon drawing on the front of Ana wearing a crown of many colors.

"Mommy you are Queen!" Ana reads and then opens it up, pink glitter spilling all over her camisole. "You rule our house with love and always make everything better with your heart." Ana sniffs a tear as she holds it to her chest.  "I love this so much," she says as she cries.

"It's true, you know." I kiss her cheek where the teardrop fell and pull out a small familiar red box from my pocket.

"Oh Christian—"

"Happy Mother's  Day!" I say as I hand it to her.

"Oh my word," she says as she opens the box and takes out a charm for her bracelet—a jewel studded crown.

"They're all of our birthstones," I say pointing to the the jewels covering the intricately detailed piece. "There are ours together at the top, then Teddy's and Phoebe's," I point to the rows.

"What are the missing ones?" she asks, noticing the empty spots.

"For the babies after they're born, and any future members we may add," I say, brushing her belly with my hand.

"Future members, huh?" She shakes her head as she smiles.

"At least eight," I grin.

"Thank you." She puts a hand to my face and brushes my cheek.

"No, thank you, Ana." I lean in to give her a kiss.

"Gross!" Teddy says.

"It's okay, Teddy," Phoebe says. "They're married."

"Exactly! When you're married you can kiss, too. But, only then."

The kids jump off the bed and start running around trying to hit each other with gummy bears.

"Hey now! Careful! Those bears could take an eye out!" Of course they pay me no mind.

I turn to Ana and lean in to whisper in her ear. "So, Mrs. Grey, it's up to you. How do you want to spend your day post breakfast?"

"Well, I think we should definitely do our favorite Sunday morning in bed activity."

"You know, I was hoping you'd say that." I smile and nip at her earlobe, then turn to the kids.

"Come on, kids," I say. "Let's cuddle up and watch Nemo!"