Liam

 

The next five weeks fly by.

We’re incredibly busy, making sure Kensley is added to my insurance at the right time, and then there was the decision to enroll London into a pre-kindergarten program for the next school year, and we nearly missed the enrollment period for the school Kensley wanted to put London into.

We organized with our parents when a good time as for them all to fly out—we decided a week before would be early enough—because everyone wants to be here for the baby’s arrival.

Meanwhile, no word from Mark.

Zero.

Kensley’s left messages on his phone, and messages with Sharon, and…

Nothing.

Honestly, it makes me nervous.

Kensley has kept her mind off it all though. Not only has she renovated all the pieces for the baby’s room, and finished Sawyer’s dresser, she also sold three pieces—a buffet, a dresser, and an entry way table.

She was shocked that they sold quickly, and for the price tag.

She had a custom listing on her Etsy store, but had to put that on hold, only after contacting the handful of people that commissioned her. Then, after she and I talked it at length—because Kensley liked to talk about everything, forward, backward, left, and right—she decided to take a maternity leave, and wanted to be sure her clients were aware of the timeframe.

Which, of course, they were.

I pull my truck up the driveway of the house after my morning at the station. We have an appointment for a 3D ultrasound today, and I told her I’d pick her up at eleven.

Instead, there she is, in the car port with paint and wax out, dancing to music streaming from the HomePod.

I’m grinning, shaking my head, as I put the truck in park.

Laying in the shade of the carport, close enough to monitor Kensley, is Guinness in his favorite frog position.

On his back…

Well, on his back is the boxer puppy we got for Sawyer two weeks ago.

Kensley told me I was crazy, wanting to add a puppy to our mix so close to the baby’s arrival, but it was getting more and more noticeable that Sawyer felt left out when London and Guinness played.

So.

Puppy, it was.

London helped name the puppy, even though he was technically Sawyer’s.

London’s persuasive like that.

And even though the puppy is a boy, his name is Doc.

As in, the forever loved, McStuffins.

Guinness is teaching Doc all the good things—staying near the girls, keeping Kensley company, staying in the yard…

But he’s also taking the puppy and getting into things.

Like a plate of sugar cookies last weekend.

Or destroying pillows.

Guinness has never destroyed things, but he’s taking this puppy business seriously—as well as the “permission” to be naughty like the puppy.

“Whatchu’ up to, beautiful?” I ask, grinning as I lock the truck and making my way into the carport.

Kensley gasps. “Oh, my goodness. Is it eleven?”

I chuckle and kneel by the dogs, patting Guinness’s head before scooping the puppy off his back. “Yeah, baby. It is.”

“Oh, no. Shoot.” She’s basically thirty-eight weeks pregnant and her waddle—especially when she’s in a hurry—is cute as fuck.

“I’ll clean up in here. You go change.” She’s wearing maternity denim overalls over an old, worn tank top. They’re her painting clothes, and I know she’d rather not be seen in public in them. At this stage, she prefers flowy dresses.

Says they’re more comfortable.

I imagine they are.

There is no more room on Kensley’s little body for this baby. Just last week, the baby jumped from the 85th to 90th percentile in weight. Meaning, this baby was going to be a solid one. Kensley told me that London had been ten pounds, and Sawyer, ten-two—which made me laugh, because they’re such petite things now—and with the way the baby is measuring…

This one is going to be her biggest.

I do not know how she carries such big babies.

With Doc cradled in my arm, I recap Kensley’s jars of chalk paint and wax, then move to shut down, and unplug, the HomePod system.

“Inside, Guinness.” He groans as he moves up to stretch, but happily trots in front of me, into the house. Guinness goes to his pillow and I crate Doc—even though I know it’s highly likely that Guinness will open the door for him later. After closing and locking the back, sliding door I call out for Kens.

“You doing okay, babe?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m coming.” She’s literally pulling the skirt of her maxi dress down over her hips as she’s walking out of the bedroom. When the material catches on her stomach, she curses under her breath and pulls at it until, finally, it flutters to the floor.

“Flip flops?” I move to the hall closet.

“Yes, please.”

I pull them out of the closet, placing them on the floor and take her hand as she blindly puts them on. Kensley is proud, and she’s independent. Two things that I have had to get used to over the last few weeks.

On our way out the door, I arm the system—something that I’ve gotten kind of neurotic about since the girls moved in, especially after the car incident.

We were informed when scheduling this ultrasound that because she’s so far along, and because the baby is so big, we probably won’t get a great picture, but Kensley still wants to do it.

Therefore, I’m game.

I am curious if we’ll be able to make out the baby’s facial features, even if it is squished.

Kensley shared pictures of the girls as newborns with me—all their ten pounds were in their cheeks. They’d been cheeky babies, and I could only imagine this one was going to be too.

The SUV is easier for Kensley to get in and out of, so I help her into the passenger side and soon we’re on our way.

Sure enough, baby is incredibly smooshed inside the womb—but it’s clear to see that this baby too, is all cheeks.

“Baby’s in position. Ready to get the show started,” the tech laughs.

“Two weeks,” I say, squeezing Kensley’s hand. “Baby’s gotta hang out for two more weeks.” At this point, my waiting game and week comments are a running joke between Kens and me. In all honestly, she could have this baby today, and I’d be ready.

I am so ready.

Oh, the irony, though…