“Alright, sweetheart. Hurry up so we don’t miss daddy,” I said hurriedly.
She gave me a look that clearly said ‘don’t rush me.’
The same look her father used quite often.
“Turn around,” she said.
Sighing, knowing she’d never go if I didn’t turn around, I did so.
Finally she went, and was pulling her pants up when she decided that maybe she wasn’t through completely.
My head hit the door with a soft thunk, and I knew we wouldn’t make it in time to surprise Foster.
“I’m pooping!” She sang, as she always did.
My head hit the door again with a soft thunk.
“Momma, you can’t tell you’re fat from the back.”
Thunk.
“And you have something sticking to your butt.”
Thunk.
“It’s still there.”
Thunk.
“Mom.”
I reached my hand back and felt around, immediately finding the sticker that I told Beckham not to play with stuck to my ass cheek.
Ripping it off, I tossed it in the vicinity of the trash, and gave another head thunk on the door for good measure.
I really shouldn’t be surprised. Beckham had a way of making even the simplest things often difficult, challenging and time consuming.
She was like her father, after all.
“I’m done,” Beckham announced loudly.
Flushing, she washed her hands, dried them on the towel hanging next to the sink, and came to my side. Grasping my hand she said, “We can go back out there now.”
“You do realize, right, that your daddy is probably already here?” I asked my little mini-me.
She scrunched up her nose, as if the idea that a party would start without her was a foreign concept that she couldn’t quite grasp.
Sighing, I opened the door.
Extremely unsurprised to find Foster standing there.
His arm was leaning up against the doorway above his head, eyes directed at me.
I smiled. “Hello.”
“Daddy! I pooped!” Beckham announced loudly, as only a three year old could do.
“I hear!” He laughed, sounding jovial.
Once she was out of the bathroom, he stooped, picking Beckham up into his arms.
I was flabbergasted, yet again, by their similarities.
It was inevitable that Beckham would have blonde hair, seeing as both Foster and I did.
But the curls…she got all of those from her daddy.
They were tight and perfect, just like his. They didn’t frizz out the moment they stepped into the humid Texas air like yours truly.
Her eyes were all mine, though.
“Thank you,” Foster said, bringing my attention away from Beckham’s face to his.
I smiled, then shrugged. “That’s life.”
He grinned, holding his hand out for me.
I walked into his arm, burying my face into his muscular chest, inhaling the warm cotton blend and crisp scent of outside on his clothes.
“You’re not fat from either side,” he started, making me laugh. “And nobody saw the sticker on your ass. I promise.”
I giggled, allowing my head to fall back so I could look into his eyes. “I love you, Foster, my honey boo boo.”
He snorted and steered me around until we started back towards the living room where the party was now in full swing.
Our whole family was there.
And it was big.
All of Foster’s extended family was there, as well as all of mine. Then there were the families of the men on Foster’s SWAT team, as well as a few of his buddies from his time in the Navy.
Our house was filled with people that loved Foster.
“Daddy, mommy said Louis is six weeks old today,” Beckham told Foster as we rejoined the party.
Foster’s eyes lit, and he turned to me with a smile. “Did she now? I didn’t realize that he was six weeks old today.”
I blushed under Foster’s hot gaze.
Today would be six weeks exactly, since I’d had our son, Louis.
Louis was Beckham’s polar opposite.
Where I’d had a C-section with Beckham, I’d had a natural birth with Louis.
Where Beckham had colic and didn’t want anything to do with me if Foster was around, Louis was momma’s little boy.
“So momma’s daddy’s birthday present?” Foster whispered into my ear.
A smile split my face as I looked up at him with all the love and adoration I felt for him in my eyes. “If that’s what you want, I’ll give it to you.”
Before he could reply, a barking from upstairs had him sighing and handing over Beckham.
“I’ll get him,” he said.
I nodded, taking Beckham to her grandparents, Micah and Sloan.
“Do you mind hanging on to her for a bit while I go get the food?” I asked.
Micah was the one to reach for his granddaughter. “Of course. Then Beckham can show paw how to work his new phone. Sound good, pumpkin?”
I rolled my eyes.
They spoiled my child.
The reason he’d had to get a new phone was because he’d given his old one to Beckham.
I’d tried to refuse, but they’d insisted and I, of course, couldn’t take the phone away from Beckham when she so clearly wanted it.
Whatever.
She’d lose it within the month anyway.
On my way to the kitchen, I passed by Luke who was busy feeding Boris a cracker.
“Watch your fingers,” I said laughingly.
He snorted. “I learned my lesson the first time, trust me.”
He did, too.
Nearly all of them did.
It never seemed to fail that they’d stick their fingers in the cage to touch Boris, and he’d turn around and bite the shit out of their fingers. Then he’d laugh, the little bastard.
We’d had to make a new cage that extended up higher so no little fingers could be accidentally stuck through the cage’s bars.
I liked Boris, but god help him if he hurt one of Foster’s babies.
“Oh!” I said once I pushed through the kitchen doors. “Thanks guys!”
Mercy, Reese, Georgia, Memphis, and Viddy were all in the kitchen setting out the food when I arrived. Doing the very thing that I’d come in there to do.
“We figured you wouldn’t mind the help. The lobsters are done, too. Your aunt fixed those before she headed out to the party,” Memphis said, pointing to the cooked lobsters laid out along the entire length of the counter.
“Woo!” I said, pumping my hand. “I hate doing that! Yet, Foster asks for them every year on his birthday, and I can’t ever figure out why.”