The Greens of Jericho

Different Circumstances Interludes: Long Distance Relationship, Part 12

by Marzee Doats

Author's Note:

We have finally reached the end of this first Different Circumstances Interlude.  Next on the docket is finishing Different Circumstances Part 15.  Thank you for sticking with me as I indulged in this chance to tell you about Jake and Heather just before the story, we all know and love, (with the Different Circumstances twist) begins.

Also, just to orient you to how this conclusion is structured: instead of a flashback, this is mostly a flashforward.  Heather's dream of the future.  We all know that it won't be exactly like this for Jake and Heather's family, so I wrote it as an exercise in "what could have been".

Many thanks to my two fabulous beta readers, Skyrose and Sherry for their feedback and encouragement. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Tuesday June 6, 9:22 pm (Jericho KS)

3 and a half months before the bombs

Heather finished entering the code necessary to re-arm the security system.  The panel emitted the chime that indicated that the alarm was on, and she nodded to herself, satisfied.  Jake had (as she'd told him at the time) bought the super-duper deluxe model, and she had gone along with it all because it made him feel better about the fact that his job took him away from home so often.  And the truth was the system made her feel better too, made her feel safe – just not as safe as she felt when he was home with her.  Only now, it seemed that that part of their life would be coming to an end and Jake would soon be home "most of the time".  Heather smiled widely at that thought, hugging herself – hugging that good feeling to herself.

Ten minutes earlier, she had let Baron out into the yard by way of the sliding glass door in the family room, stepping out onto the deck to enjoy the last few minutes of twilight while the dog had ventured out across the expanse of manicured lawn and into a scrubby little patch of bushes just beyond to take care of his business.  The security panel here – one of four in the house, three downstairs, and one upstairs in the master bedroom – was just to the right of the sliding glass door, above a light switch that controlled a set of lights for the deck.  They were quite bright, and Heather had only turned one – the dimmest one – on when she'd stepped outside.  She snapped it off.

"So," she began, turning to face Baron, who was waiting for her a mere foot away.  "How about we go see just how badly Dad is gonna beat me at chess," she suggested to the Labrador, beginning to move through the room toward the small alcove that housed the chess table.  "Though, I think he prefers it if you just call him 'Jake'.  But you can still call me 'Mom'.  Just in your head.  And I know.  I'm crazy," she sighed.  "I'm talking to you, expecting you to answer, and I'm crazy," she repeated, grumbling, and placing her notebook and cell phone on the edge of the chess table. 

She didn't bother taking a seat – either on her side of the table where she played "white" or on Jake's from where he (and these days, she, on his behalf) played "black" – instead standing next to the table, studying the board from both above and the side.  Baron stopped beside her, and Heather let her hand rest on top of his head, absently instructing him to "sit" while she located "a3" on the chessboard.  "My queen," she groaned, "How did I not see that?" 

Not only did Jake's dark square bishop have a straight shot from "e7" to her queen at "a3", but – worse – his bishop had no path out of her queen's path.  If he didn't take this move, he couldn't make a more conservative play and move his bishop to safety; instead, he'd have to trust that she wouldn't just take his bishop with her queen.  She glanced down at Baron, who looked up at her, dislodging her hand and panting happily.  "He trusts me, and I trust him.  And all is fair in love and chess, so…."  Heather moved Jake's bishop to "a3" trading it for her queen which she deposited on his side of the chessboard. 

"That's done," she announced.  "No takebacks."  Finally, Heather took her seat, forcing herself to contemplate what her next play would be.  She could take Jake's knight with her own; it was likely the best answer she could come up with.  But she realized, tonight, her heart wasn't in this game.  Rather, her heart wanted to ponder those future games she and Jake would play with their children. 

"So, pop quiz time, Munchkin," I say, facing our daughter over the chessboard.  It isn't the one that Gramps gave to Betsy as an anniversary gift all those years ago, but rather the small, compact, travel set that we mostly take with us on camping trips.  It's only about seven- or eight-inches square and magnetized to keep us from losing pieces.  Amazingly, in twelve?

Heather stopped.  She had a tendency to tell herself vivid and detailed stories when she daydreamed, and thinking ahead to her future with Jake was no exception.  Now she was confronted with the need to decide when exactly this scene would take place.  Jake had brought the chess set along on the first camping trip they'd ever taken together, over Memorial Day weekend, seven weeks before their wedding. 'Four years ago, now,' she realized.  

No, thirteen years.  Amazingly, in thirteen years we haven't misplaced so much as a pawn. 

"Mama, what's a pop quiz?" Abby asks me, because of course that is her name.  Abigail Renate Green.   

Jake always said that if we gave our daughter the initials A-R-G, we were going to have to start dressing as pirates for Halloween, and so we have, ever since her first Halloween when she was nine months old— 

No.  Scratch that. 

—ever since her first Halloween when she was a few days short of eleven months old.  Her birthday is in early December, about a week after Thanksgiving, and three weeks before Christmas.  And now … now is … the second weekend of September.  Which makes Abby five and a half – five and three-quarters, to be precise – but only a kindergartener.

"A pop quiz is when your teacher asks you some surprise questions to see if you were paying attention," I explain.

"I was paying aye-ten-shun," Abby insists. 

She doesn't like to be questioned – doubted – and if Jake were here, he'd kiss my ear and whisper, "One hundred percent you, Babe.  Precocious as all get out.  I love it."

"You're not my teacher," she complains then, "So you can't pop quiz.  You're the principal and I hafta call you 'Mrs. Green' at school." 

This is hard for her, and the truth is, three weeks into the school year she still hasn't remembered to call me "Mrs. Green" instead of "Mom" or "Mama" any of the times we have crossed paths as student/principal.  I am both elated and frustrated by this.  Elated because she is my darling daughter – my baby girl – and I love it when she fits her little hand into mine, and smiling up at me, murmurs "Mama"; frustrated because this is how I am expected to demonstrate my professionalism: by requiring that my children, while we are within the walls of Jericho Elementary, pretend that they are not, in fact, my children.  But I want them to attend my school, and this is the tradeoff.  Besides, her brother managed this transition so well.  And I know I shouldn't compare them. I know it's only because he loves games (as does she), which is exactly how we pitched it to him – to them both.  As just a game we're all going to play.

"Mrs. Goodhart is my teacher," she reminds me, and it feels a little like a rebuke.

"Yes, she is."  It seems easier to agree.  Whenever I have started to worry about this, Jake has always reminded me that I'm their first, most important, and lifelong teacher.  And I have always turned that around on him, telling him that as parents, we are together their first, most important and lifelong teachers.  But this is my chosen profession, and I don't want to confuse her, so I will keep all of that to myself.  "And I'm pretty sure Mrs. Goodhart doesn't give pop quizzes.  In fact, you probably won't get a pop quiz until you're in second or third grade," I tell her.

"So, I don't hafta pay aye-ten-shun until second grade?" Abby questions, and her eyes widen as she grins at this thought.  The question, the glint in her eye, and that smile, are all one hundred percent Jake, no matter how much he claims she is my mini-me.  She is most definitely his daughter too, and a daddy's girl to boot. 

This allows me to banish – for the moment anyway – my worry that I am doing my children a disservice, and I'm almost able to suppress my laugh.  "It's probably better if you pay attention to most things in kindergarten and first grade, even if there aren't pop quizzes.  That way you can get to second grade."  There, I have fulfilled my obligations as an educator.  "And Abby, you need to pay attention when Daddy or I are talking to you or teaching you something, okay?  And Mrs. Goodhart or any of the other teachers," I add for good measure.  "And Grandma, or your grandpas, Auntie April, Uncle Eric, Uncle Mikey," I list.  My brother had been out in August, bringing his fiancée to introduce to his big sister – and to remind me of Jake's promise that I'd lay off mothering him once he got married, since having kids certainly hadn't stopped me.  "Uncle Stanley—"

"That's too many people," she grumbles.  "And I pay aye-ten-shun.  To fun stuff," she argues.  One hundred million percent Jake.  Now she's frowning.  "Why are you laughing at me?"

"I'm not laughing at you, Munchkin," I assure her, though another giggle escapes me.  "I thought what you said was cute because it reminded me of your dad, that's all." 

She has his beautiful eyes, his complexion, and as I said before, his grin – all of his many grins, actually.  I love it.  She has my nose and mouth, and I'm glad for that; I always considered my nose and mouth to be the best of my facial features.  And that "Green Grin" – I have to say – improves the "Lisinski Lips".

"When's Daddy coming home?" she wants to know.

I check my watch.  It's nearly noon, and the game should be over by now.  "Soon, Baby," I promise her.  "But they had to go to Fielding today," I say, "And sometimes, if the other kids' parents don't come right away, Daddy has to wait with them, remember?"

"Yeah," she mumbles.

Abby is playing with her knight, twisting it around on its square, clearly eager to move it.  "So, what do we call the piece you're touching?" I ask.

"Horsey!" she declares brightly. 

"Close," I agree.  "It's a knight.  Remember in some of the bedtime stories Daddy reads to you, there are knights, and they ride horses and sometimes they joust?"  Her brother has long been obsessed with knights and jousting, so much so that Jake and I manufactured jousting poles – lances – out of pool noodles and duct tape for a very memorable sixth birthday party.  "Well, that 'horsey' piece is called a knight."

"Knights slay dragons, Mama," Abby informs me.  "Daddy tells about it so good."  He's a great storyteller.  More than once, I've stopped outside one of the kids' rooms to listen in on a bedtime story and it always makes me love him – love all of them – just a little bit more.  Her eyes widen, and her tone turns hopeful.  "Are there dragons in this game?"

"No dragons, sorry," I apologize.  She is immediately crestfallen, and I vow to mention it to Jake.  If anyone can adapt chess to include dragons, it's him, and there isn't anything he wouldn't do for her.  "Do you know how knights move in chess?" I ask her.  "It's the craziest." 

She shakes her head "no", and I pick up my knight and explain, "Knights can go two spaces up.  Or down, but right now they can't go down.  It would be off the board, see?" I show her how there are no squares behind the knights to move to.     "So, they go two spaces up," I demonstrate, moving my knight from—

"Well, this requires a little checking," Heather told Baron.  She examined the board – she examined Jake's side of the board as in her fantasy she was playing "black", while Abby played "white" – and confirmed the starting positions of the black knights: "b8" and "g8".  Then for good measure, she verified the starting positions of the white knights: "b1" and "g1".  "Duh," she giggled to herself.

—moving my knight from "g8" to "g6".  "And then, they go one space either left or right from there."  I place my knight at "f6".  "It's your choice, they just can't land on a space one of your other pieces occupies.  See?" I say, pointing at "d7" and then at "e7".  "I have a pawn there and there, so I can't move my knight there.  You always have to go up one or two, and then over two or one.  Knights just move in an 'L'.  Easy-peasy."

"Mom!" Abby protests, rolling her eyes.  It is both devastating – where did my baby go? – and hilarious. 

I decide to take a sympathetic approach.  "Chess has a lotta rules," I tell my daughter, "And it's okay if you don't want to learn all of 'em now.  You don't even hafta learn to play—"

I am cut off by Jake's bellow of "Babe!" from the front of the house.

"Abby, cover your ears," I instruct and she immediately does, making a pouty face.  "Family room!" I shout back.

Within twenty seconds, he joins us.  I am sitting on the floor, my back against the couch, while Abby sits across the coffee table from me, the miniature chessboard between us.  Jake leans down to offer me a kiss.  "You know, you're supposed to yell back 'Hon!'" he teases.  "It's like our version of 'Marco Polo', just it's 'Babe Hon'."

I tilt my head toward our little girl.  "She's not liking the shouting right now," I remind.  We put her in the park department's day camp this summer – it's open to any child aged five to fourteen – and it ended up being a bit much for her.  Too many kids, too many bigger kids, too much going on, always a little too loud.  Add to that an older brother and cousins who also enjoy shouting and exuberant play, and she's become sensitive to noise.  Luckily, Gail was sympathetic to her situation and pitched "The Abigail Adventures" to us.  She sprang Abby from her last week of camp before school started.  The two of them spent each day together, just the two of them, doing fun but quiet things.  (Though Johnston admitted to me later that he'd been included in two tea parties – and that he'd gone fishing in lieu of "spa day".  I'd reminded him that Abby would have been happy to join him fishing too – as long as he baited her hook for her – and now they have a date for the first Saturday after baseball ends.)

"Right," Jake acknowledges, scooting behind me and dropping to a seat on the couch.  His knees brush both my shoulders and he squeezes me with them for just a second.  "Well, maybe we can play that later after the kids go to Mom's," he jokes.

Twisting around, I place a kiss to his knee – just to the left of the grass stain on his baseball pants – before looking up to catch his eye.  "So, that's what you want to do for date night, huh?  A yell-y version of hide-and-seek?"

"I love hide-and-seek!" Abby declares.  "Just not with yelling.  We should play that."

"How 'bout after lunch, Munchkin, okay?" Jake answers before I can.  "And maybe just you, me and—"

She let out a groan.  This was always the problem with her more elaborate daydreams.  Heather never knew what to call their son – or sons.  The only enduring opinion Jake had on the matter was that they were not going to name their child Johnston Jacob III.  The very first time they had discussed the matter – months before their wedding – Jake had proposed calling their son Joseph, after her father.  She had rewarded this suggestion with a kiss before explaining that her brother John and sister-in-law Kerry had rightly called dibs on Joseph since it was both their fathers' name.  Then he'd made a joke about naming a boy, Phil: as in 'Fill in the blank' and the conversation had drifted to other topics.

"What are we going to call your brother, Baron?" she chuckled, standing up.  The dog also climbed to his feet, tail wagging.  The two walked back into the family room proper, Heather stopping to retrieve the camping chess set off a shelf in the bookcase.  Right next to the game was an eight-by-ten framed wedding photo of Jake and herself with the rest of the Greens. She paused a moment, letting her finger trace over Gramps's smiling face.  "So," she inquired, glancing down at the Labrador.  "Whaddya think of EJ?"

"—and maybe just you, me, and EJ," Jake suggests, starting to massage my neck and shoulders.  I lean back into his touch, offering a grateful sigh.  "Mama's not feeling too good today," he reminds Abby.

"Actually, I'm feeling fine now, Jake," I tell him.  His fingers still for a split second, and I order, "But don't stop.  That feels good."  

"You got it, Babe," he agrees, reapplying himself to his efforts.  I can't help but moan softly in appreciation.

"So, speaking of EJ…." I say then, "Where is he?  How'd he do?  How was the game?"

"Answering in reverse order," Jake decides, putting his thumbs to work on a knot that has developed on my shoulder blade, "Because I know how it turns you on when I answer in reverse order—"

Our daughter's expression is one of both horror and intrigue.  "You can turn on?  How do you turn off?"

I let my head fall back against the couch cushion, between Jake's knees.  "Now look what you've done," I accuse, sotto voce, rolling my eyes.  I raise my head and face our inquisitive daughter.  "It's a comparison," I say.  "Like, if we were robots, turning off would be going to sleep, and turning on would be waking up.  Daddy's teasing me because you and I slept in this morning when we were supposed to go to EJ's game."

"Hey!" he protests, "You needed the rest, Babe.  And this little Munchkin wouldn't get dressed," he continues, making a face at Abby.  She makes one in return, erupting in giggles.  "She wouldn't get dressed, so I had no choice but to leave her behind."  He feigns sadness, shaking his head.

"I figured she wouldn't get dressed," I laugh, leaning against him once more, tipping my head back, our gazes locking.  "Though you made a good attempt."  She'd been wearing her nightgown, overalls – with only one strap fastened – and bunny slippers when he'd deposited her in our bed.  He'd apologized for ruining my chance to sleep in, then kissed us both goodbye.  But I hadn't minded.  Abby and I had cuddled together, dozing off and on for ninety minutes before we'd wandered downstairs to find the pancakes Jake had made for our breakfast and left in the microwave to keep warm.  "She wouldn't get dressed for me either," I point out, gesturing at our girl.  She is still wearing her nightgown, overalls, and bunny slippers, though those are at least hidden underneath her at the moment.

"You didn't get dressed," Abby points out.

"Well, I’m going to," I tell her.  "Before we make lunch.  And you need to get dressed too, before you go to Grandma's, Munchkin."

"I'm gonna," she returns with a nonchalance that only a five-year-old can carry off.  "I'm gonna wear my purple unicorn shirt," she announces, "The glittery one, not the plain one." 

I force myself to suppress a smile.  Almost no one would actually call her non-glittery purple unicorn t-shirt "plain".  I can still mostly pick EJ's clothes myself, but with Abby all I have is an "I'm paying for this" veto.  She knows what she likes, and unicorns, horses, glitter, rainbows, butterflies, and kittens are heavily featured in her wardrobe.  Though I realize, if I ever see a dragon t-shirt – especially in pink or purple – I can probably get away with buying it.  "I think that's a great choice."

“The Green Girls and their glitter,” Jake jokes, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

"Oh really?" I intone.  "Because I'm pretty sure that you, my gorgeous Green Guy," I flirt, tilting my head back, "Are also glad for glitter." 

"I'm good with glitter," he agrees, slanting his head toward mine, intending, I'm sure to come in for another kiss.

But I am overwhelmed by a moment of vertigo and hold up my hand to stop him, groaning "Ugh."

"Babe," he frowns, though it takes me a moment to recognize this as his face is upside down (from my vantage anyway) and very close.

"Sorry," I apologize, my eyes fluttering closed.  “Got a little dizzy there, just for a second.”

“Need me to get you something?  Water?  Ginger ale?  Somethin’ to eat?” Jake offers concern evident in his tone.

"No, I’m fine, I promise." I lift my head up, so I am once again vertical and take a fortifying breath.  "Still full from pancakes, actually.  And thank you for that," I smile, looking back over my shoulder at my husband.  "Exactly what I needed this morning.  And I really liked the strawberry slice lips on my smiley face.  You're becoming a master of the art form," I tease.

Jake grins absently at that, but his tone is serious.  "You needed to eat, Babe," he reminds, his hand finding its way into my hair.  He starts to massage my scalp and it feels wonderful.

"Yeah," I sigh, reminding, "And you still owe me some answers, Mr. Green.  In reverse order."

“Right,” he chuckles.  “So, where’s EJ?  How’d he play?  And how was the game?  I got that right?”  I nod under his hand which continues its ministrations to my scalp.  “So, in reverse order: game was good.  We won, had to invoke the mercy rule actually.  Fourth inning."

Heather paused for a second.  She'd been setting up the camping chess set on the coffee table just in case she needed the reference, but now she turned her mind toward baseball.  It helped that Jake had clued her in on the fact that Jericho's co-ed softball rec league followed the same rules as Fillmore County Little League; it also helped that he had a standing invitation to play on the church softball team whenever he was in town.  She'd spent a fair amount of time in the bleachers rooting for Jake and the Main Street PC Sluggers, much like she anticipated doing for the next couple of decades for their children.  "The rule's called the fifteen-ten rule," she informed Baron, "Leading by fifteen after two and a half or three innings," she remembered, "Or ten runs after three and a half innings through the end of the fifth."

"That's still ten runs," I argue, "I'm impressed.  We were playing a pretty good team, right?"

"They're okay.  Not as good as Cedar Run," he explains.  "They – Cedar Run, I mean – were playin' on the next field, and they lost, so mathematically speaking, we're guaranteed a playoff spot at this point.  Cedar Run still has to win one of the last three games, or Fielding 'B' and 'D' teams have to lose all the rest of their games."

"Okay, so I’m definitely gonna need Gina to cover the next PTA meeting for me," I realize.  There are only three more regular season games – Tuesday and Thursday evenings, and next Saturday.  The playoffs are scheduled to start the Thursday after, in conflict with the standing monthly PTA meeting at the Elementary.

"EJ’ll understand—"

"Maybe.  But I won't," I counter stubbornly.  "And why should he?  Our children – you – take precedence over my job," I argue, my eyes on Abby, who has been listening and watching silently and with great interest.  This she definitely gets from me.  "And I know there are times it doesn’t seem like that, but it's true," I finish, swiping a hand over my eyes.

"Don't cry, Mama," Abby consoles, reaching across the coffee table to pat my arm.

"Hey, Babe," Jake objects, moving his hand to my back where he begins rubbing gentle circles.  "You are an amazing mom, and a great principal, and that's all the time, far as I'm concerned.  So, you can blow off the PTA whenever the hell you want," he insists, "And you'll still be the best mom and principal our kids – any kids – could ever have."

Our daughter nods in agreement, flashing the sweet, sweet smile that she also got from her father.  "Uh-huh," she concurs, "Whenever the hell you want."

I try – I really try – to not laugh at that, but in the end, I can't help myself.  "She repeats that to your mom, and you are on your own, Mister," I inform my husband, reaching back over my shoulder to pat him on the knee somewhat clumsily.  "But thank you for saying all that."

"You're welcome," he murmurs, catching my fingers and squeezing them when I try to withdraw my hand.  "And Abbs, maybe don't say that sorta thing to Grandma?" he requests, pressing my fingers one last time before letting go.  "Or she'll put me on a 'time out'," he jokes.

Abby's eyes widen.  "She can do that?"

"She is his mom," I remind.  "And that doesn't stop just because he's your dad."

"Wow."

"And maybe don't say it at school either, okay?" I request.

Abby nods.  "Okay, Mama."

"Thank you, Munchkin. So," I say a beat later, "How'd EJ do?  And where did you lose him?"

"You just reversed the order of the questions I'm s'posed to answer in reverse order, Babe," Jake accuses with a snort.  "Now I'm not sure which is first."

"Reverse of the original order, please," I request, even though I really do want to know where my eldest child has gotten to.

"Got it.  Well, he did good – great," he replies.  "We’ve been working on his consistency, and he's gotten – well – very consistent.  Our team was hittin' everything, but Fielding 'A' just couldn't hit off him.  We were the visitors, and yeah, the whole team contributed to the four runs we scored in the top of the third, but it was EJ who pitched three up, three down, to get us out of the inning, allowed the umpire to invoke the mercy rule."

There is pride in my husband's voice, and it makes my heart swell with love and joy for him.  He always said he was going to coach Little League when we had children and he has kept that promise, throwing himself into the effort with an enthusiasm that surprises even me (a little bit).  Last year, he was asked to be league commissioner, but he turned it down, saying that he didn't think it was appropriate as long as he had kids participating, and anyway, for now, he just wanted to coach. (Though I'm sure the paperwork had something to do with it too.)

What had really surprised me – surprised us all – was that Jake had suggested his dad for commissioner (the previous commissioner having retired from farming before moving out of the area).  Johnston had balked initially, but – after making it clear that he would not give up cheering for his grandkids in the name of "objectivity" – he'd accepted the volunteer position ("All title, no pay," he'd joked),  telling the nominating committee, "I'm sure my wife thanks you for givin' me somethin' to do that'll get me outta the house – outta her hair – for fifteen hours a week."  Gail had of course been glad that Johnston had found something useful (meaningful even) to do in retirement – Eric was elected mayor a few years ago – but it seems to me that the duties of the wife of the Fillmore County Little League Commissioner and the wife of the Mayor of the Town of Jericho are actually quite similar, and I don't know that there are very many of those fifteen to twenty hours each week that they don't spend together.   

"Well, you are an amazing dad and a great coach.  And I'm glad that you don't blow off Little League."  I hope that by mirroring his words, Jake will recognize just how much I appreciated his affirmation a minute ago.  "I wanna be at Little League, so it'd be silly if you blew it off to go to the PTA."

"So – don't take this the wrong way, Babe – but the PTA is all yours," he chuckles.  I feel him lean in over me and he presses another kiss to the top of my head, his voice a low rumble as he whispers against my hair, "And thanks for sayin' all that, Babe." 

'Message most definitely received', I decide.

He pulls back then, ordering "Now scootch."

For a moment, I have no idea what he is up to; still, I move over, to the right, and he slips down off the couch, taking my place across from our daughter.  He kicks her too, by accident, and Abby squawks in protest.  Her expression is wounded, and she makes a show of rubbing her leg where his foot struck her.  "I'm sorry, Baby," Jake apologizes, his tone appropriately contrite.

"It's okay," she says allowing an exaggerated sigh.  Jake and I exchange a look, but manage, somehow, to not crack one another up. 

"Now, you," he continues, reaching for my hand, instructing, "Come here."

I oblige him, settling myself sideways in his lap, my arms looped around his neck.  I am happy just like this – though the coffee table is pressed somewhat uncomfortably into my side – but Jake is still not satisfied.  "Keep going," he tells me after we exchange a quick kiss, and I figure out that he truly wants me in his lap, my back pressed to his chest, my legs stretched out on top of his.

"I'm not sure this works," I argue, even as I adjust my position – and bash my knee on the underside of the table.

"Just don't kick Abby," he advises, "Makes her mad."

She squeaks indignantly at this, and I assure her, "It's okay to be mad if someone kicks you.  But if they didn't do it on purpose, you should accept their apology and then tell yourself: 'It was a mistake, I have no reason to be mad'."  Abby nods.  I lean back into my husband's embrace, inquiring, "So where is he?  What'd you do—"

"What'd I do with your eight-year-old baby?" Jake teases, rubbing his cheek against mine.  He waits a few seconds, then asks me, "Babe, what would you tell me about any other eight-year-old boy, that you hadn't happened to give birth to?"

Sometimes, every so often, it is just the slightest bit annoying to be married to someone who pays attention to you and what you say.  This is not something that is written about in the advice columns of the women's magazines I only have time to read at the dentist's or doctor's office, but it's absolutely true.  It's a very small, but very real problem.  "You're telling me I need to cut the apron strings, huh?" guess, letting my head rest on his shoulder.

"Nah, just loosen 'em a little bit," he returns, kissing my temple.  "He's eight—" 

"He is eight," Heather declared, surprising herself by uttering the words aloud.  But it wasn't like Baron wasn't used to their one-sided conversation by now.  "He's eight.  Born on Gail's sixtieth birthday," she decided.  'July thirty-first'.  "It's my fantasy, and she'd like – love – that.  She'd call him 'her best birthday present ever', for sure.  And that makes him… eight-years- and six-, seven-weeks-old.  A third grader."

"—he's eight, not eighteen, Babe.  Besides," Jake continues, "It's not like you're ever gonna cut 'em completely.  You can't.  Pretty sure your apron strings are made out of that cable they use for bike and computer locks," he chuckles.  I start to turn my head and he rushes to assure me, "Which is a good thing.  But you know… Mike."

"I know," I sigh.  "And eight-year-olds need to be given moments in which they can safely assert their independence."  I sound like I am quoting from a textbook, and I probably am.  I am good at this with other people's kids, with my students, even with my nieces and nephews.  I am good at calmly escorting a mother to the door and promising that everything will be fine.  But now I'm that mother who needs reassurance, and it sucks.  This, I'm not good at.  "I'm trying," I insist.  "I sent him into the market all by himself the other day and he did fine." 

"Course he did," my husband murmurs, nuzzling the back of my neck.  "'Cause you're an amazing mom.  And so, he's, maybe, ready to be a little independent. Not all the time, but sometimes."

"Yeah," I agree, taking a deep breath.  "Still.  Jake," I wheedle, just a little bit.  But I'm grinning too as I press my face into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, demanding, "What did you do with my baby?"

"I'm your baby!" Abby announces. She is clearly annoyed that anyone – me in particular – would say otherwise.

"You are my baby," I soothe, turning my head to face her.  "But so's EJ.  You're both my babies."

"He's just upstairs," Jake answers finally.  "He had to pee, so I told him he had to go up there.  I'm tryin' to limit the damage to one bathroom," he grumbles.  In the last few weeks, I've become rather irritated by EJ's inability to pee only (heck, I'd settle for mostly at this point) in the toilet.  How a kid who has such precise aim as a pitcher can't hit that particular target is a mystery to me.  And my poor husband has heard all about it. "Thought you'd appreciate that."

"I do appreciate that, thank you," I acknowledge.  "And you are going to talk to him, right?"

"We talked about it to and from Fielding," he tells me.  "And I'm gonna stand over him while he cleans the bathroom this afternoon, okay?"

"Thank you," I repeat.  "And you know, sometimes a demonstration is just the teaching meth—"

"Not goin' there yet," he interrupts, apologizing, "Sorry, Babe.  But I'll get him to stop pissin' everywhere like he's marking his territory, promise.  I'm just gonna do it my way, okay?"

Abby's mouth is a perfect 'O' of astonishment, and I tell her, "That's another word that you shouldn't say to Grandma, okay, Munchkin?"

"My mom can handle 'piss'," Jake argues.  "She might've even said it herself this morning when she was reaming me out about this.  'Cause she was pretty pissed.  Apparently, she's had to clean the downstairs bathroom three times this week."

"I'd be p.o.'ed, too," I inform him.  "Actually, I am p.o.'ed.  And I'm sure your mom didn't actually say that to you.  That word, I mean."

"That was probably me," he concedes.  "But she didn't flinch."

"Yeah, well, just because she doesn't mind when you say it, doesn't mean she's gonna like it when she hears that coming out of her sweet, darling, five-years-old, namesake granddaughter's mouth," I grumble, warning, "So you're on your own for that one too."

"I'm almost six," our daughter reminds us.

"You are almost six," Jake confirms, and although I am not looking at him, I know he is smiling at her, just from the way she grins in return.  "And, maybe, don't say 'piss' to Grandma.  Stick with 'pee', please."

"Or maybe just ask to be excused," I suggest, "And if someone wants to know why, you just say 'I need to use the facilities'."

"What are 'the fa-sill-lit-tease'?" Abby wants to know.

"'The fa-sill-lit-tease' are a fancy way of sayin' the bathroom," Jake tells our daughter, chuckling. 

Her face lights up at this news.  Abby Green loves being fancy; I offer no less than three glittery unicorn t-shirts (purple, pink, and green) as mother's exhibit 'A'.  "Can I say 'the fa-sill-lit-tease' at school?" she asks, and I nod "yes".  'No way this isn't the talk of the teachers' lounge by Tuesday', I think to myself.  "Cool!" our baby girl chirps.

"So, what's goin' on here?" my husband asks, his tone curious, but also the slightest bit suspicious.  He points at the small chess set on the coffee table.  "What are my girls up to?" he teases, snaking his other arm loosely around my middle and kissing the shell of my ear.

"Well… Abby wants to learn how to play chess, so we were going over some of the rules," I explain. 

"Yeah, but I wanna play that chess," she scowls, pointing in the direction of the alcove.  "Not this one," she completes, shoving the miniature board away – toward us.

"Hey, Munchkin," Jake scolds, "That's not cool.  And you can't play the other chess if you aren't careful with this one."

"Sorry," she returns, crossing her arms over her chest and sounding anything but.  "I'll be careful," she adds, grudgingly, a beat later.  "So, can I play the other one?"

"Maybe," he allows.  "Mom and I need to talk about it first, okay? Besides, it's almost lunchtime—"

"Can we have PB and J?" she interjects, bouncing a little.

"Yes," I tell her, thankful that she's still so easily distracted by the idea of food. 

"Grilled PB and J?"

"It's Saturday," I grin, "Of course we're having grilled PB and J.  We always do grilled somethin' on Saturdays."

"So, Munchkin, how 'bout you run upstairs and get your brother for me, okay?" Jake requests.

"Are you guys gonna talk about me?" she inquires, suspicious.

"Yeah," he replies, "Duh, we always talk about you.  'Cause you're our favorite thing to talk about.  It's a really good thing you were born too, so we could talk about you.  Otherwise, I don't know what Mom and I would've ever found to talk about.  It would be sooo quiet around here."

"Daddy, you're silly," Abby giggles. 

"I'm not silly," Jake growls.  It's the same voice he uses for the troll when he tells the kids the story of the Three Billy Goats Gruff.  "You're silly," he tells her, keeping his tone – well – gruff.  "Now get goin'."

We watch as she skips out of the room, and I lean back, nipping gently at his jaw.  "All right if we get up?" I ask, tasting the salt on his skin.

"God yes," he groans, shoving the coffee table away.  "I don't know how you do this every day."

"I don't," I laugh as I somehow leverage myself to my feet with Jake's help.  "Not anymore anyway.  Not ever really – not as an adult.  Kindergarteners – Abby's class – sit in a circle on the floor.  But Audrey doesn't."  Audrey Goodhart used to be the kind of teacher who hung out on the floor with her students.  But she's had both knees replaced, and I've had to insist that she stop.

"What about third grade?" he asks.  We're both standing now, and he pulls the coffee table back into place.  "You always had those beanbag chairs in your classroom."

"For my students," I agree, wrapping my arms around his waist.  "In the reading corner.  But that's not the same thing as sitting on the floor.  And I didn't use them," I claim, amending, "Not very often, anyway."

"Got it," he nods, loosening my hands with his own and lacing our fingers together.  He pulls me along with him as he settles himself on the couch.  "So, you really think Abby's ready for chess?"

"I don't know, Jake," I answer honestly.  I shift within the circle of his arms so that my head is pillowed on his chest.  He kisses my forehead, and I can feel his smile.  Now I'm smiling myself.  "What I think is that she's feeling a little left out," I sigh.  "Her whole family is playing a game without her.  She is left out."  I shrug.  "But I don't know."

"He was seven – almost seven and a half – when we started him," Jake reminds me.  He's right; we only inducted – and it was an induction ceremony because that's the sort of thing I do – EJ into our game last New Year's Day.  This year, EJ is my partner, and next year he'll be Jake's.  "Babe, she's not even six."

"I know."  My eyes flood with tears and my throat tightens.  I don't – I can't – say anything for a long moment.  I finally manage to croak out, "But she's smart."

"Of course, she is.  They both are." He has been making his way along my hairline brushing kisses against my hair and skin.  "Which … we always said we were gonna have beautiful, brilliant, genius kids," he recalls, pride once again coloring his tone. "And we do."

"Babies, Jake," I correct.  "Beautiful, brilliant, genius babies."  I pull away from him then, my arms propped on my thighs, my hands covering my face.  I groan, emitting an irritated noise, though I have no idea who I am irritated with.  Myself?  Him?  The father who screamed at me for nearly ten minutes yesterday because the new sixth grade teacher has the temerity to require a minimum of half hour's homework each night, Fridays included.

"Babies, Heather."  He rests his hand on my back.  "I meant babies.  Genius babies."

'I'm being unreasonable,' I realize.  "I don't – I'm sorry.  I'm just all over the place today, and I don't know why."

"You don't?" Jake chuckles, beginning to move his hand once again in gentle circles on my back.  I want to melt into his touch.  This has become his specialty.  He's used it to comfort our children since they were fussy babies, just as he'd used it to make me feel better at four-forty-five this morning when I was puking my guts out.  "Babe, you're pregnant," he reminds me.  "With our baby."

"I – we don't know that for sure," I argue, though I'm pretty sure that I am.  "Part of the reason I wanted to go to the game this morning – besides that I always wanna go to games, for EJ and for you – is that we could've stopped at the drugstore in Fielding, and I could've bought a test."  But I'd been worn out from being sick – okay, morning sickness – and had just been grateful when he'd told me to sleep in, take the morning off, and that he'd handle the kids on his own.  Abby hadn't cooperated with this plan, but it was still sweet of him to try.  "Not something I'm gonna do in town," I sigh.

"Not unless you want my mom to know 'bout it before you get home," he snorts.  "But you should've told me, I could've stopped."

This makes me laugh.  "Like you're gonna just walk into a drugstore and buy a pregnancy test," I tease.  I am definitely the more uptight of the two of us, but – even after thirteen years of marriage – he'll go pretty far out of his way to avoid walking down the Feminine Hygiene aisle, let alone making such a purchase. 

"Nah.  But I could send EJ in," he jokes.  "What'd you say?  Sendin' him to the store provides a safe opportunity to foster some independence?"

"Uh, no," I deny, shaking my head at him.  "That's fostering somethin', but it's not independence," I grumble.  "Major therapy bills in his thirties?" I suggest.  "And Jake….  I don't think we should tell them yet.  It's too soon," I argue, "What if something happens?  I don't – I don't want them to be disappointed.  Or worse, relieved—"

"Babe.  They're gonna be excited," he assures me.  "Baby brother?  Baby sister?  What's not to be excited about?"

This is not how this went the last time.  There's only twenty-eight months between EJ and Abby, and I don't think he ever noticed that I was pregnant.  We just left him with Grandma and Grandpa for three days, and when they brought him home, we introduced him to his baby sister.  "Well, I hope so," I nod, forcing a smile. 

"They're gonna be," he repeats, his hand finding its way beneath my – actually his – t-shirt to splay across my stomach.  "But okay.  We'll just keep this our little secret for the next month or two," he decides.  "I'm good with that."

"Well, there might be a few more people in on 'our little secret'," I say.  "I've got an appointment with April at four-thirty on Monday, remember?" 

I had told him as much when the kids and I had arrived home the previous evening.  After sending EJ and Abby into the kitchen with the Chinese food for our dinner, I'd pulled Jake aside to let him know that I had booked the appointment – April always holds the last two appointments of her day, blocking them for true emergencies or a select few family and friends – and that he would need to pick the kids up from his parents' house on Monday night. 

He'd grinned at this news, kissing me before saying, "So, you think you're pregnant, too, huh?"

Blushing softly, I had agreed with him.  "That's why I made the appointment.  And," I'd continued, wrapping my arms around his waist.  "We have been trying.  Technically."

"Well, I've been trying trying," he'd returned, "Not just technically trying."

"Yeah, me too.  And now that I've thrown up four mornings in a row, it's the logical conclusion."

Jake's grin had turned to a frown.  "I thought this was the third morning," he'd grumbled.

"You did not get to witness my first bout," I had informed him.  "Tuesday morning.  You had to call into that 'delicate operation' confab.  At four AM.  You were downstairs.  Besides, I didn't know then that it wasn't something I'd eaten over the weekend.  Now, c'mon," I'd urged a beat later, catching his hand in my own.  "I'm starving."

"You're starving huh?" he'd murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.  "Yeah.  Pretty sure you're pregnant."

"Maybe," I'd told him, leading him toward the kitchen.

"I still don't see why I can't go with you," he complains, raising my hand to his mouth so he can brush a kiss across my knuckles.  "And you know Mom'll feed the kids for us, just 'cause we ask.  We don't even hafta tell her why.  And then we can go to The Grille to celebrate you passing your test," he jokes.  "I mean, when have you not passed a test?  And you know … this is probably the last time we're doin' this."

"'Probably'?" I repeat, gaping at him.  "I didn't think we'd be doing it this time.  And this is not an appointment you need to be at.  This is a 'pee in a cup' appointment, that's all.  You can come to the ones after this, when I hafta go to Dr. Clement," I say, mentioning my OB/GYN.

"You always wanted three or four kids, Babe.  That's why we're doin' this.  And I'm still good for sittin' in the waiting room, holdin' your hand," he argues.  "Even for a 'pee in the cup' appointment."

"I'll think about it," I promise, resting my hand on his cheek.  "And I was always just fine with two.  With EJ and Abby.  They're not perfect—"

"But they're perfect for us," he completes for me.  "And maybe they're not perfect, but they're pretty damn great."

I nod, smiling.  "Yeah, they are.  But really," I continue a beat later, "All I wanted was to discuss a more permanent form of birth control.  You're the one who said we should go for the tiebreaker."

"Turns out I like kids," he shrugs, grinning sweetly.  "Babies too.  Especially when they're ours."

This is enough to make me tear up.  Jake spots this and reaches out to wipe the corner of one eye, then the other, with his thumb.  "Sorry," I mumble.

"S'okay, Babe.  I remember how this part goes," he tells me.  "I can handle it.  And maybe you don't need to take that test, 'cause you're definitely pregnant."

"You know we're crazy, right?" I say by way of an answer.  "Waiting six years to do this again?  We are sooo outta practice, Jake. Out of baby practice."

"Maybe," he agrees.  "But maybe it's like riding a bike.  And you know, I'm dealing with this EJ thing… kinda like I'm still on diaper patrol," he jokes, still grinning. 

"Not really," I sigh.  But I smile too, because he truly is a wonderful father, who has changed his share of diapers – and then some.

"A girl can dream, right?" Heather asked rhetorically.  Baron made a noise – something between a whimper and a harrumph – and it sounded to her like he was skeptical.  "What?" she grumbled, "He mucks out stables!  In his free time.  Plus, he said he was in for 'the gross stuff' about having a baby.  Well, he said kid," she admitted.  "But he meant our kid, and I'm not just gonna assume that he's gonna hate changing diapers because Mandy thinks that.  Even though I love her.  But I love Jake the most, like he loves me the most."  She glanced again at the dog, who was watching her so intently, like he was hanging on to her every word.  "You wanna come up here?" she offered, patting the spot next to her on the sofa. 

His tail wagging, Baron jumped up on the couch.

"It'll come back to us, Heather," he insists, his tone turning serious.  "And at least we know what's coming, right?  We'll be even better at it," he predicts, twisting a strand of my hair gently around his finger before tucking it behind my ear.  "Like diapers.  I didn't know anything about diapers before EJ.  But then Mom did her bootcamp for Eric and Stanley and me.  And.…"  He shrugs.  "I survived."

"You did way better than surviving, Hon," I insist, catching his hand a squeezing it.  "You're good at diapers – at everything.  You're an amazing dad.  And…."  But I let that thought drift off.

"And?" Jake prompts, pressing my fingers in return.  "C'mon, Babe."

"And you're the only person I ever want to be sleep deprived with," I say finally.  It wasn't what I'd been planning to say, but it's better.  I need to trust Jake on this.  He wants to have a third child.  "Which we're gonna be.  Again.  And caffeine deprived, and shower deprived," I laugh, shaking my head.  "And ridiculously hormonal," I add, "But that's me, not you."

"You're the only person I want to be all the depriveds with too," he smiles.  "And I can handle ridiculous hormones."

"As long as it's not just because you want to keep coaching Little League for six more years," I grumble.  That's a little closer to what I stopped myself from saying a moment ago.

"Well, I am gonna get to coach Little League for six more years, but it's not the reason, just a reason.  I like our kids," he repeats, "That's the reason.  So, we lose some sleep.  And we're neck deep in diapers for a year or three.  Big deal.  You're not talkin' me outta this, Babe," he warns me.  "So, I hope you're not trying to back out now."

"I'm not.  And I'm pretty sure that ship has sailed," I tell him.  "So, it's good you're on board."

"Good we're both on board," he corrects.  "I'm lookin' forward to having another kid – a baby."

"Me too," I smile.  "They're pretty cool, especially ours." 

"Pretty cool," Jake echoes.  He cups my chin, holding me in place so he can kiss me, gently and thoroughly.  "So, Abby and chess," he begins when he finally pulls away.  "This isn't some ploy to get all the kids on your team, is it?"

I'm not even sure what he's saying.  "What do you mean?" I chuckle nervously.  "She just said she wanted to play, so I thought I'd teach her some of the rules.  But I did it wrong," I confess without stopping.  "I tried to explain how knights move, because she seemed interested in that piece, and I think she thinks I was making it up.  Also, she wants there to be dragons in chess."

"Then we just call the bishops, dragons," he decides.  "The way their hats – whatever they're called.  But their hats, that little gap that's carved, it's like a mouth, so the mouth of a dragon.  And they move diagonally, which is probably how a dragon flies."

"I know I thought of it too," Heather admitted to Baron, scratching behind his ear, "Obviously.  But the bishops are the best candidate to make into dragons.  And I know how Jake thinks, and he'd think of that faster than me for sure."

"A bishop's hat is called a 'mitre'," I explain. "And the bishops are on either side of the king and queen," I argue, even though I like this idea.  "That doesn't seem safe for – you know – the king and queen.  If this were a story instead of a game."

"The rooks are clearly castle towers," he reminds me, "And the knights are horses.  So, the bishops are it.  Still, these are tame dragons that protect and defend the king and queen, okay?"

"That works," I agree.  He really is a great storyteller, and I knew he'd figure this out for Abby.  "And I think it's the knights that she's interested in the most.  When I asked her what they were called, she said 'horsey'."

"Well, she's horse-mad," Jake says, though "brags" would be a better description.  EJ likes horses – likes riding – but Abby is Jake's little assistant in the barn.  And she's probably a better rider than her brother – certainly better than he was at her age.  We went on our (now) annual Recluse Greens Labor Day "horse-packing" camping trip last weekend, and Jake insisted that Abby got to ride a horse, not just the pony.  In turn, I insisted that she take Callisto – she's older and steady and I trust her with my baby – and rode Tycho instead.  "She might be interested in playing chess because she'd finally get to touch the horse statue," he suggests.

I groan in acknowledgement.  "I think you're right.  That's part of it, anyway," I hedge.  "And you're still gonna take EJ and Abby camping next Labor Day," I inform him.  "Maybe just two nights instead of three.  I'll hafta stay back with the baby, but I don't want them to miss out."

"Maybe we make the final decision on that in August, okay?"

"Yeah," I agree.  "But you can probably get April, Eric and the twins to go with you," I suggest.  "And speaking of August, if she's okay with it, maybe you invite Stanley and Georgie along too."  August is five and a half months pregnant with their second child—

"Don't give me that look," Heather scolded.  "It's my fantasy.  And Stanley's romantic luck has to improve sometime," she continued, trying to justify her choice to the dog.  "August is still a potential candidate for that.  A longshot candidate, I grant you.  But still a candidate.  And April would love it."

—August is five and a half months pregnant with their second child, so there's no way she'd agree to go camping herself with a seven- or eight-month-old baby.  But I think she'd be willing to let Stanley and (by then) five-year-old Georgie go.

"Not a decision that needs to be made now," Jake repeats.

"Right. But still.  Bonnie could even go—"

"Babe, if Stanley and Georgie go, it'll be 'cause Bonnie shoves him out the door, planning to enjoy the chance to run things all on her own for a few days."

This is very true.  Bonnie (armed with a B.S. in Agronomy from Kansas State) co-manages the Richmond's farm these days.  She has an apartment in town, but spends long days out on the family farm, and if Stanley's bragging is anything to go by, she has single handedly modernized their operation and secured the ranch for the next generation of Richmonds.  Bonnie and August still get along like gangbusters, and August is happy to leave farm management – and arguing about farm management – to her husband and sister-in-law.  As I've heard her say more than once, "I'm willing to live on a farm, not work on one." 

"True," I laugh, "Though if she's not careful, Stanley really is gonna turn it all over to her and start sleeping in every day."  He issues this threat quite regularly, often at Sunday dinner, because these days the Richmonds are expected to be at Gail Green's table on a weekly basis (if not more often) and not just for special occasions.  Gail has declared Georgie to be her bonus grandchild, and no one has been silly enough to contradict her on that.

"And I'm not trying to get all the kids on my team," I tell my husband.  I reach for his hand, and he allows me to place it once again on my stomach, underneath my shirt, my hand resting on top of his.  "This kid is not going to be of much of a chess player for a long time still."

"Genius babies, Babe, remember?" he counters, grinning at me as he wiggles his fingers – still beneath my own – against my skin.

"I know," I smile in return.  "And I figure that what we do is teach her the rules between now and New Year's.  Then she'll be six – so it's really only a year earlier than we were planning – and we can induct her into the game.  EJ will be your partner then, and she'll be mine.  The year of girls versus boys," I tease.

"Or she can be my partner now. Unofficially," he quickly clarifies.  "You can still throw your induction ceremony in January.  But we'll spend the next coupl'a months teaching her the rules and … it'll work."

"You're sure?"

"I wanted to know what you were thinkin'.  If you think she's ready," Jake answers.  "I trust your judgment, Babe."

"This should be a joint decision," I say.

"It is a joint decision.  We've agreed that we're gonna start teaching Abby to play chess, right?"

"We are," I nod.  We hear a thump on the floor above us. "EJ's room," I identify.

"You want me to go up?" Jake asks.  "See what disaster they've gotten into?"

"Nah," I decide a few seconds later.  "Nobody's screaming, and we are trying to give him moments of independence." 

"Abby was s'posed to get him and bring him right back."

"Well, she probably changed into her purple glittery unicorn t-shirt," I guess, "Then realized her overalls were gonna cover up her purple glittery unicorn t-shirt.  So, she had to find new bottoms – jeans, leggings, maybe a skirt – so that's a hard decision.  And now, I bet she got distracted and started packing for Grandma's.  Half her clothes for one night," I laugh.

"Right."  Jake chuckles along with me.  "That's gotta be what she's doing.  God, you always know our kids so well."  His tone is admiring.

"Well, I am the mom," I shrug.

"You're the best mom," he whispers, kissing my ear.  "And," he continues, "My mom said we should pack church clothes for them.  She's gonna get them ready—"

"All of them?  Five kids?  They're all gonna be there tonight," I remind him.  "Your mom's gonna be in ultimate grandma mode."

"Yeah, she is," he agrees.  "So you can pick 'em up, take 'em to Mass, or they can go with Mom and Dad to church like everyone else."

"They can go with your parents to church," I decide.  "I mean, they like the Presbyterian Sunday School."  EJ had both his First Penance and his First Holy Communion earlier this year, and he and I were very faithful about attending his classes all spring.  But still, the weekend of, when my dad and Mikey (he's EJ's sponsor) were out from Buffalo to celebrate with us, EJ was more than happy to tell them that, all in all, he liked his grandparents' church better.  I'd expected Dad to be upset by this news, but he'd told me that the important thing was that our children had faith, not where or how they choose to practice that faith.

"And I'm pretty sure I'm not gonna be up to going to Mass tomorrow, given the last few mornings." 

"Yeah, okay," he murmurs into my hair.  "And – you know – with the kids at Mom and Dad's, you can go back to bed and sleep in as late as you want afterward.  We can just wait 'til Sunday Dinner to pick them up.  Not sure how my dad'll feel 'bout that, but they'll love it."

I nod my head at that.  "Yep, as soon as I finish barfing in the morning, I will definitely go back to bed and let you bring me toast and decaf coffee."

"I can make pancakes again," he suggests.

"Thanks," I smile.  "And you really don't have to switch to decaf with me Jake," I tell him.  He'd left a post-it on the coffee maker this morning that said: 'Drink me.  I'm decaf. ♥'.  "It's important that at least one of us is alert."

"We'd hafta get a second coffee maker to make that work.  Besides, I can always hit The Cyber Jolt or McBee's and get a cup of regular coffee.  If you start ordering decaf around town, everybody's gonna know what's up," he teases.

"True," I laugh.  "And now I should go get dressed," I announce, starting to get up from the couch, "Which means I can check on them."

"Don't go yet," he requests, tugging on my hand so that I sit back down, ending up, once again, in his lap.  "And don't get dressed on my account.  I like your flannel PJ pants," he tells me, somehow snaking both hands into said pajama pants to cup my bottom.

"Jake," I giggle, laying my head back against his shoulder and turning it so I can press kisses to his neck. 

"I like you in my shirt, too," he murmurs.

"You like me in anything," I laugh.  "Or nothing.  But it's date night tonight, so I need to get dressed sometime."

"Babe, we don't hafta go out," Jake argues, "Let's just stay in tonight.  You don't feel good, and I'll just drop the kids at Mom and Dad's, then pick us up somethin' for dinner.  Whatever you want," he promises, "Plus we can watch whatever you want on TV."

"You sure?  Because I don't feel bad, really.  I just feel … pregnant," I admit, smiling at the thought.

"I'm sure.  Besides I thought the point of date night is that we spend time together, not that we actually have to go somewhere."

"It is.  Of course, it is," I agree.  "But it's nice to go out too."

"Okay," he nods.  "Whatever you wanna do."

"Well, I don't really want to have to wear nice, go-out-in-public, clothes," I confess, a long moment later.  "All week at work, it's been, like, torture.  Everything feels just a little too tight."  I frown thinking about it.  "So, if you really don't mind staying in, that'd be good.  I'd like that."

"I don't mind," he confirms, lifting my hand to his mouth and kissing the inside of my wrist.  "In fact, I was kinda hopin' you'd wanna stay in," he claims.  "And if you pick, like, three chick flicks for us to watch tonight, even better."

"How 'bout a 'Lord of the Rings' marathon?" I suggest.  "Hon, you know better than to offer me carte blanche when it comes to chick flicks," I tell him, while my fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck.  "You really don't hafta baby me just because – well – we're probably having a baby."

"'Probably'?" Jake teases.  "I'd say definitely." 

"Yeah, but let's not jinx it," I request.

"Got it.  No jinxing it.  But you still get to pick what we have for dinner," he insists.  "So, what's it gonna be?  Burritos?  You want me to go to the truck stop for—"

"Not the truck stop," I mutter, shaking my head.  "I mean, I love my junk food, but I should try to eat better, and besides, I don't think I'd love it so much tomorrow morning, in the other direction."  We groan in unison, and I twist around so I can flash him a sour smile which Jake proceeds to try and kiss away.  "Same for burritos," I continue.  He leans his forehead against mine and our gazes' lock.  "And pizza."  Not that we have a source of that closer than Fielding these days.  "I think … I think I may just need some major protein.  Like – like a big steak and a baked potato," I decide, "And broccoli.   I really want some broccoli."

"A big steak, a baked potato, and broccoli," he repeats my proposed menu.  "That's what you want in the other direction?"

I think about this for a good ten seconds before I say, "I think so?"

"Well, we've got steaks in the freezer, so I'll pull 'em out before lunch, let 'em thaw, and do 'em on the grill when I get back—"

"—I can bake the potatoes—"

"—and I'll stop at Gracie's after I drop the kids off to get some broccoli."

"Perfect.  And now we have dinner plans," I smile. 

"I should warn you, though…" Jake recalls then, "Mom says Dad's barbequing all weekend.  Hot dogs and hamburgers for the kids tonight, a tri-tip and chicken for everybody at Sunday dinner."

"I knew that, actually," I admit.  "Your mom asked me to make potato salad.  And devilled eggs.  So, if you could also pick up some parsley when you're at Gracie's…."

"You got it, Babe."

"Thanks," I acknowledge.  "And, uh…. I'm gonna have grilled cheese instead of PB and J for lunch."

"Okay," he says, grinning at me.  "I remembered cravings as coming a little later….  And you don't hafta run what you're eating by me."

"I know.  And this isn't a craving thing," I tell him, explaining, "It's an avoiding a potential allergy thing.  I mean, the science is a little conflicting, but there have been warnings that consuming peanuts in early pregnancy could lead to the baby developing a peanut allergy, and that seems worth avoiding."

"Agreed," he nods. 

"And while I really think that you and I together can handle almost anything—"

"Heather, we can handle anything," he assures me, "Forget the almost."

"Yeah," I agree, smiling at him.  "But still, having a child with a peanut allergy would be disruptive to our family.  And giving up peanut butter for a few months isn't a big deal.  For me.  I'm already giving up caffeine," I remind, kissing him.  "Now that's a big deal," I whisper against his lips.

 "EEEEWWWW!"

This is EJ.  To our son, kissing is – and I quote – "Disgusting!"  I once told Jake that, as a child, I'd thought kissing was gross, and that I might have still thought it was a "little gross" up until the time I met him.

"Okay, you're right," Heather conceded, stroking Baron's head which he'd propped up by placing his chin on her thigh, "I told him that, like, two days ago.  But it's true.  And I have a point."

What I didn't tell him is that while I (mostly) hadn't been interested in kissing anyone myself before I'd met him, I didn't exactly think kissing was gross for everyone.  Accidentally walking in on Andy (age sixteen) making out with our next-door neighbor, Marcy Vogel (age nineteen) when I was eight was a bit disconcerting, but I always enjoyed the moments when my father would kiss my mother, or – more rarely – Mom would surprise Dad with a kiss.  I took this all in as romance to be sure (I am a bit of a romantic) but also as security.  My parents loved each other, and they loved me.  And I was quite a bit older than either (or any) of our children before I came to realize that not everyone grows up with that sense of security.

This is how Abby appears to view things when she catches Jake and I kissing, which to be honest, is fairly often.  I should be worrying about that tidbit of information making its way around Jericho Elementary.  Like me, she is a romantic, at least as much of a romantic as a five-almost-six-year-old can be.   But EJ – is just annoyed – disgusted – by the love and affection his father and I have for one another.  Or at least how we sometimes express it in front of him.  He hasn't always been this way, but going to school, playing baseball, generally being around other boys his own age, has taught him that kissing is icky.

"EJ, I'm telling you Ace, one day you're gonna be sittin' in Spanish class, not learning a thing, because you're too busy daydreaming 'bout kissing the girl in the next desk."

"Uh-uh!  No way!"  Our son's denial is emphatic.  "I don't like girls and I don't like kissing," he insists.

"I'm a girl," I tell him, biting my lip to keep from laughing.  "And so's Abby."

"You're my mom.  I like you 'cause you're my mom."  He crosses his arms over his chest, presumably to indicate that the matter is settled.

"Whaddabout me?" Abby demands, hands on her hips.  She is – as I predicted – wearing her purple glittery unicorn t-shirt paired with rainbow striped leggings. "I'm a girl."

"You're my sister," he returns stubbornly.

"Come 're," I order, and thankfully our children are still young enough that they mostly do as they're told.  I pull EJ down onto my lap – our laps, really, as he kind of sprawls across both Jake and me.  "You might not like kissing anybody, but I like kissing you," I tell him, pressing a series of quick kisses to his head and face.

EJ squeals in protest and Jake pulls Abby into the melee, and the four of us end up tangled together on the couch.  "And I like kissing you," I continue, brushing a kiss across our daughter's forehead.  "And I like kissing you, too, Hon," I smile at Jake as he leans over to give me a peck of a kiss.  "Though, now I'm wondering who the girl was that sat next to you in Spanish and kept you from learning how to conjugate your verbs," I tease.  "And does she still live in town, and do I know her?"

"I know how to conjugate," he argues.  "My Spanish is fine, actually."  He's right.  But also, I know that most of that comes from the language course the DEA put him through, not from high school.  "And we don't talk about who either of us was kissing before we met, remember?"

"So, I do know her," I conclude as our eyes meet.  'Emily', I think.  I hadn't known that she'd taken Spanish with him.  For being in the same year in a small school, Jake and Emily hadn't had as many classes together as you'd expect.  Jake shrugs (as best he can with two kids piled on top of him) confirming my assumption:  'Emily'. 

Emily Hammond most definitely still lives in town, and while we don't necessarily run into each other every day, we do interact regularly.  Her older son is on Jake's team this year (but in the second grade) and her younger son is in Abby's kindergarten class.  Her daughter is a toddler, and Emily still teaches English at Jericho High.  She and Roger have been married almost—

Heather paused to contemplate this for a moment.  Emily's "save the date" postcard had arrived in the mail the week before, and she'd put it on the refrigerator to remind herself at some point to mention it to Jake.  But she hadn't gotten around to it.  He was stressed out and exhausted right now, and she wasn't all that interested in discussing his first girlfriend's – first love's – upcoming wedding.  The Sullivan – Hammond wedding was scheduled for the first Saturday in November, and if Jake was home by then and wanted to attend, then she would go along with him.  And if he wasn't or didn't, then she'd send a gift.  'Nine years,' she nodded to herself.  'If this is all happening in September nine years from now, then they'd be coming up on their ninth anniversary.'

—nine years.  They seem happy together, and that's about all the mental energy I am willing to waste on Emily Hammond today.

"Daddy," Abby scolds, "You're not s'posed to kiss anybody but Mama."

"Little pitchers…" I murmur against his shoulder.

But EJ hears this and protests.  "I'm a pitcher, not Abby."

"Hey, Ace!  We're gonna try Abby out as pitcher next year when she moves up from t-ball," Jake tells our son.  "Then you'll both be pitchers."

Fillmore County Little League runs three sessions each year: Early Spring, Spring/Summer, and Late Summer, but only organizes the t-ball division for the first two sessions.  Abby enjoyed t-ball – and Jake somehow managed to coach both our kids' teams – but I completely agreed with Johnston's decision not to have the younger kids playing for nearly eight months a year.  This is also the first time I've heard Jake say he thinks she should "move up", and while my first instinct is "no", I also know that I can trust Jake to know what's the right thing to do when it comes to our kids and baseball – or anything, really.

"You think she's ready for that?" I inquire.

"Yeah, I do," he replies, "But no pressure.  She can stay in t-ball, or she can go up a division.  We keep it fun."

"Okay," I nod.  "Sounds good, Hon."

"We don't hafta decide now, Babe," he tells me before turning his head toward our daughter.  "And you, Munchkin," he says, tapping her nose with one finger, "If I'm only s'posed to kiss Mama, then what about when I kiss you?"  He proceeds to press his face into her neck, blowing raspberries.  Abby giggles hysterically.  "But you're right," he declares a few seconds later, "Because Mama's the only person I kiss…."

"Like married people kiss?" I suggest after a long pause.  I want to help him out, given his almost deer-in-the-headlights like expression.  This is what we do.  This is what we always said – what we still say – about being married and being parents.  We help each other.  Because we're in this together.

"Yeah," he agrees, chuckling, "'Cause we're married."  Jake kisses me then, gently, catching my lower lip between both of his for just a second.  But honestly, it's still a chaste kiss – and it's still enough to induce EJ to pretend to retch.

Jake is not amused.  "Hey.  EJ.  Cool it," he orders, his tone taking on a serious quality that is still kind but which our children recognize as his "I mean business" voice.  "Okay, he declares a moment later, "Get up."  He lifts Abby off his lap, then starts to stand up himself.  EJ also scrambles to his feet.  Finally, Jake offers me a hand, and I pull myself up from the couch.  "Chess time," he announces, "And Abby, Mom and I decided: you get to play."

"Yay!" she exclaims, grinning and bouncing in place.  "Like, right now?"

"Like, right now," Jake confirms.  He glances at our son.  "That okay with you, EJ?  Abby and I are gonna be partners, and you and Mom are still gonna be partners, and then on New Year's, we'll switch."

"Sure," he agrees easily, shrugging.  EJ may claim to not like girls, but he makes an exception for his sister (and for me), and I let myself think that maybe he's missed having her involved in chess, much as she's felt left out of chess.  "But I'm never getting married."

A bark of laughter escapes Jake.  "Oh, you're not, huh?  Well, we'll see how you're feelin' about that in fifteen, twenty years."

"You might change your mind when you're older," I add, wrapping an arm around our son's shoulders.  "Your dad didn't like girls when he was eight either.  Just his mom – Grandma."

We follow Jake and Abby, who is holding fast to his hand, hopping along as he walks, to the chess table in the alcove.  EJ is frowning.  "You didn't like your sister?" he asks, sounding disturbed by this idea.

"I don't have a sister," Jake reminds, seating himself before pulling Abby onto his lap.  EJ and I each take half of the chair on our side of the board.  "Just a brother," Jake continues, "Uncle Eric."

"Right," EJ acknowledges.  "Well, we can have a brother too, if you guys want," he says, glancing at me – his expression expectant – and then back at Jake. 

"We'll take that under advisement," Jake promises, smirking at me. "But – you know – that might involve some married people kissing stuff."

I groan.  I'm an elementary school teacher turned principal, so I'm aware of the jokes and stories my students use to explain sex to each other, but before this moment, I haven't had to consider whether or not EJ (or even Abby) has heard them.  "Let's not do this discussion right now," I request, glaring daggers at my husband.

"Right," Jake nods.  "But Ace.  Munchkin," he adds, squeezing Abby to get her attention, "If we ever do get a new baby for our family, we don't get to pick whether it's a brother or a sister.  We just get what we get, and we're happy about it, okay?" 

"Okay," they agree in unison, though EJ is less enthusiastic than his sister.

"Looks like Mom and EJ are up," Jake says, pointing at the horse figurine which is facing the two of us. 

We are a good ten or twelve exchanges into this game—

"Guess I need to get a good ten or twelve exchanges into this game," Heather laughed to herself.  "Sorry, Baron," she apologized to the Labrador, dislodging him as she leaned forward to quickly play chess against herself.  It took a minute or two – and sacrificing a black pawn to white's dark-square bishop – but she finally had the chess board set up in an interesting enough fashion to continue "thinking ahead".

We are a good ten or twelve exchanges into this game and EJ and I confer quickly.  He decides that he wants to move our knight to capture Jake and Abby's pawn at "d4".  This move will put us in danger of recapture, but I agree to it anyway.  I can be a tentative player, especially in comparison to Jake, but I know that sometimes you need to sacrifice a piece, and I'm pretty sure that's what is going to happen.  I want him to start to see how it helps to think a few moves ahead.

"Okay, EJ, turn the horse around," I instruct.

"Can I do it?" Abby requests.  She's using her baby voice, but at least it's not actually baby talk, which took us a while to break her habit for. 

"Sorry, Munchkin," Jake tells her, "But you can turn the horse around after we take our turn, okay?"

"Yeah," she grumbles.

"So, Mom said she told you about the knights, right?  How they move?" Jake asks.  Abby nods.  "So, you saw how Mom and EJ's knight moved here – from—"

Heather quickly checked the board.

"—from 'c6' to 'd4', right?"

"The horsies move in an 'L'," Abby agrees.

"They're called knights, and yes, they move in an 'L'," Jake confirms.  "So, you see our knight here?"  He directs her attention to the black knight at "b3".  "Well, we can capture their knight with ours.  See?"  He traces his finger over the tops of the squares, moving "b3" to "c3" to "d3" and then to "d4".  "See that?  Can you make that move?"

"Yes!" Abby declares, leaning forward to pick up their knight and then move it in an 'L'.  With her other hand, she removes our knight from the board before not-at-all gently plunking their knight in its place.  She twists around, looking up at her father.  "Where does this horsey go?"

"Knight," Jake corrects, not making a big deal about it.  "And put it right there, on the edge." She does, looking back up at him eagerly.  "Good job," he praises, "Now you can turn the horsey statue around."

"Okay!" she declares eagerly, reaching for the horse figurine.  "Your turn," Abby adds, patting the ceramic horse on the back.

EJ touches our dark squares bishop at "c3".  "Mom," he whispers urgently, looking at me sideways.  "Can I do this?"

"You can absolutely do that," I grin.  He's only done this a few times: spotted a good move almost before I have.  He's learning, and my mother's heart and my teacher's heart are both beating a little faster. 

Before EJ can move his piece to capture Jake and Abby's knight at "d4", the square of so much chess carnage this game, Jake says, "Okay, Ace, we're gonna change things up a little."

"Okay…."  EJ sounds quite skeptical.

"What do we call that piece?" he asks.

"It's the bishop," our son returns easily, "And it moves diagonally."  We spent a good chunk of January and February working on this part of chess: name and movement.

"Yep," Jake confirms, "That's what we call it in new chess.  But there's actually an older version of the game where it's not bishops, it's dragons."

Abby inhales sharply.  "Really?!?" she squeals.  "Mama said that there aren't any dragons in chess, but there are knights so there should be dragons," she reasons. 

'Well, Jake, that's one way to make sure she remembers they're called knights,' I think, catching his eye.  'Give them dragons to hunt.'  But what I say is, "I told Daddy you were sad that there weren't dragons in chess, and he reminded me that that's what the bishops were in old chess."

"So, 'thar be dragons'," he jokes, winking at me.  "In chess.  Since now we're gonna play old chess.  With the king and the queen, and knights and dragons."  He pauses a moment and then encourages, "Okay, Ace, make your move."

"Go for it, EJ," I echo. 

He moves our piece and then removes their knight from the board.  Abby squawks in protest, but Jake is quick to let her know, "That's how the game goes sometimes, Munchkin.  And we've got bigger issues anyway," he explains.  "See how our king is here?"  Jake points at the piece sitting at "f2".  "Well, their dragon can get our king now, and if they get our king, we lose the game."

"It's gonna try and breathe fire at the king," Abby decides, "And then the king will be a crispy critter."

This is the punchline to a joke that Jake told her a while back when she was worried about the animals in a forest fire: that you call those animals "crispy critters".  While I'm glad her loving heart is no longer wounded for every animal or person when she hears about some disaster, natural or manmade, I wish she hadn't flipped to being quite so blasé. 

I must be frowning, because Jake tells her, "Yeah, but that was a stupid joke I told you.  I mean, in chess, sure we can joke about the king being a crispy critter, but it's our king.  We don't want him to be a crispy critter."  Abby nods, and he continues.  "But what we can do is move our dragon in between our king and EJ and Mom's dragon.  See?"  Now he points to "h6".  "We can move our dragon from here to here—"  He points to "e3".  "—and then it's between our king and their dragon."

"And our dragon won't attack our king," she realizes.  "He's like a guard dog.  He protects our king."

"You got it," he grins, kissing the top of her head.  "He's just like Baron."  That's debatable, but I like it.  Baron's getting up there, and I worry about when he passes, but so far, my puppy endures.  "Make your move," Jake says.

Abby does as instructed, and then reaches for the horse figurine, only to realize that EJ and I forgot to turn it around.  "Sorry," I apologize, quickly flipping it to face her and Jake. 

"Thank you," she says, her tone betraying a hint of annoyance.  Immediately, she turns the horse back around to face EJ and me.  She is clearly anticipating our next play, and soon.  I suspect that the next thing we need to teach our daughter is that we don't play speed chess in this house.

"How 'bout we have lunch now?" I suggest.  At first glance, there are a number of plays we can make, and I'm not sure that's a discussion EJ and I should have in front of Jake and Abby.  "I think my colleague and I need to consult before we make our next move," I joke.

"I'm starving," Abby chirps, telling her brother, "We're having grilled PB and J."

"Cool," EJ grins in return, shifting on the chair beside me.

Thank you for being my partner, Munchkin," Jake says, lifting her off his lap.

"You're welcome, Daddy," Abby returns before suddenly bolting toward the kitchen.

"Hey!  No fair!" her brother complains, taking off after her.

Jake gets up from his chair, coming around the table to offer me his hand.  "Let's go make lunch.  Grilled PB and J for them, grilled cheese for us."

"Hon, you can have PB and J with the kids," I tell him, standing up and wrapping my arms around his waist.  "Just like you don't hafta drink decaf with me."

"Yeah, but it's you and me against the world, remember?  And that includes peanut allergies."

"Well, that it is," I agree.  "And thank you for remembering about old chess and dragons," I giggle.

"Thank you for agreeing that old chess was a thing and that it has dragons," he returns.  He brushes a strand of hair off my face, saying, "I know you don't like to lie to the kids—"

"Inventing old chess is telling a story, not lying," I argue.  "And—"

"And here I thought that was the same thing," he returns dryly.

"It is, but it isn't," I smile, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.  "It's… it's about the intention behind telling them a story," I decide.  "And your intention – our intention – is good.  So, when they figure out that nobody else had dragons in chess, well… we just deal with it then."

"You sure?" he asks, eyebrow arched in question. 

"I am.  Because you totally made her day, Hon," I tell him.  "I mean, there are dragons in chess, and she got to touch the horse statue."

"That's what it's all about, right?  Makin' their days?  Makin' your day?  Being here for all of it.  Fun, boring, gross, joy, wonder…."

"Definitely what it's all about," I nod, letting go of him, but only long enough so that I can twine my arms around his neck.  I start to run my finger through his hair, grinning, "I love you."

"Love you, too, Babe," he assures me, his mouth covering mine—

Her cell phone began to trill Take Me Out to the Ballgame, pulling Heather decidedly out of her daydream.  'That's okay,' she thought reaching for her cell and thumbing it on.  "Hi Hon," she greeted.

"Hey, Babe."  Jake's voice was a warm rumble in her ear.  "Whatcha doin'?"

"Just thinking."

"So, whatcha thinkin' about?" he pressed, a smile evident in his tone.

"Just you and me and the future," she declared, giggling.

"That's all, huh?"

"Yep, that's all."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

To be continued (eventually) in Different Circumstances Interlude: Hawaii.

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I really am continuing to write this story (both the main storyline and these Interludes), and I have a pretty good outline to get me through the rest of season one and beyond.  But again, I don't know how fast that will be or if there is still any interest in this story.  If there is, and you want me to know that the best way to do so (unless you are a registered user of this site and want to leave a review) is to email me directly at: marzeedoats @ gmail dot com (please format as an email address – I am trying to avoid getting additional junk mail).  I promise I will only use this information as encouragement to write, and potentially to send you pdf copies of later chapters, if and when the site closes (would be late May 2024 at the earliest).  Contacting me directly is the best way to let me know if there is still interest in this story, and if you want to know (eventually) how it ends. 

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End Notes:

Not as many of these as usual, but a few things to keep in mind.

Jake playing on the church softball team (Main Street PC Sluggers) is first mentioned in Different Circumstances Part 15C.  Heather tells April and Eric (and later Mary) that when they met with Reverend Young about having their wedding at Main Street Presbyterian Church, the pastor recruited Jake to play on the team for the upcoming season in the hopes of beating the Batty Baptists for once.

Jake and whether or not he's ready to change diapers is a running Different Circumstances gag.  It is a topic of discussion at Thanksgiving dinner in Different Circumstances Part 10E.  This is when Heather formally requests that Gail run a training class for Jake, Mikey and any other male in the family who might need to be taught or refreshed on the skill.

As we know, in the Different Circumstances universe, Heather is a coffee/caffeine fiend, and Jake is a peanut butter fiend.  Given the prevalence of peanut allergies over the last thirty or more years, women have at times been advised to avoid peanuts and peanut products early in pregnancy.  The research on this issue is mixed, but Heather would have likely been aware of it in 2006 when this scene takes place, and so it seems like something she might incorporate into her very detailed fantasy life.