Page 63 of Unwrapped

“I thought we were going out for ice cream?”

“Woman,” I growl against her neck in my fake Jamaican accent. This causes her to belly laugh.

“I did not marry a man like my dad. I don’t care what you or Nigel Moore say.”

“Mrs. Good Stuff.” I kiss her cheek. “You think you’re so tough.”

“Oh my God! Stop!”

We eat the dinner she prepared and after, we walk to a nearby ice cream parlor.

“So,” she says over a bowl of cookies and cream, “Remember these?” She waves her arm in my face and shows off a charm bracelet.

“Yeah. I got that for you on our honeymoon. I want to go back for our anniversary next year. I loved Maui.”

“You know what else you got me on our honeymoon, Stinky Nicky?”

“Not stinky, sweets. I know you got laid a lot, but what else did I get you?”

“Pregnant. You got me pregnant.”

The spoon of cookie dough ice cream slips from my hand and lands on my pants as I stare at my wife at a loss for words.

“What did you just say?” Blood is pounding in my ears, and all I can think about is that I hope I heard her right the first time.

“Your sperm is quite potent for an old man. My birth control just wasn’t strong enough. I’m pregnant, baby.” I jump out of my seat and lift her out of hers. Right there in the middle of the small space, I spin her around.

“My wife is pregnant!” I yell. Everyone inside claps and someone lets out a loud whistle.

“Nicky is ours next weekend. Becker’s grandson is turning two and we want to take Nicky to his party,” my mom says to me, pulling me out of my daydream. Between my mom and Becker, and Miranda’s parents, our son is always in demand.

Becker makes drinks for everyone, including a non-alcoholic version for Miranda and our son. A few minutes later, Uncle Joe and Henry arrive. Andrew is right behind them, looking more distracted than I’ve ever seen him.

For the next few hours, our house is filled with family, music, love, and nonstop chatter as we share a meal and memories of Christmases past.

After brunch, my mom takes control of the music, and of course, everyone laughs at her choice of song.

When I have my wife in my arms, dancing much too slowly for “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” she makes a face and looks down as water trickles down her legs.

In record speed, we’re on our way back to the hospital, and five minutes into Christmas, our second son is born.

“You are so outnumbered, sweets,” I say to her hours later as I hold our son in the hospital room. “But we’ll keep trying until we have a girl.”

I gently put the baby down, slide into the bed next to Miranda and pull her in my arms.

“You’re still my favorite Christmas surprise,” I say against her temple.

“And you’re mine.”

The End.