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Love it.

Things are a little messier than they were without him; however, the house feels more alive. We’ve got lake gear in our garage and bike gear in our closets and bird photos beside my book prints and even pictures of us from personal events along with ones from the club, the club who adores me by the way.

All the members have been nothing but respectful.

And it turns out that some of them even secretly like the same books that I do.

H swore he wouldn’t tell them that I told him, but I think he likes knowing he’s not the only one that’s more than they seem.

“I’m not that pregnant yet,” I gingerly remind, gaze swinging back to him.

“You’re so preggers,” corrects my husband at the same time he gently presses a hand to my stomach right above my Misfit patch bearing fanny pack and cranes his face closer. “Don’t worry, little egg. I gotchu.”

It’s impossible not to giggle at his over-the-top behavior.

Two months.

I am two months pregnant, which is also the amount of time we’ve been married – er – married on paper.

Apparently, once you claim an Old Lady that’s their version of marriage; however, to the rest of the world, you know that keeps track of legal paperwork, we became “one” the day after we found out I was pregnant with a quick ceremony at the club.

Not a total surprise I got this way given our constantly sexing nature but definitely a bit unexpected.

Due to my medical condition, my OBGYN wants to see me every other week, the nutritionist wants weekly emailed reports on diet – which H is very good about keeping as well as sending – and the hematologist gets forwarded over updates from both.

It’s a lot.

And it’s even more a lot when you tie in the talk therapy sessions I have, which are meant to help me work through my residual trauma. Despite not having any resentment towards the club or H and not remembering more than a couple chunks of the actual death circumstance moments, Frog – along with my medical team – insist that it’s vital to my mental health to have the appointments especially with the constant amount of changes going on.

And there are so many.

Healing and cohabitating with someone you’re sleeping with – so different than living with Gam Gam – and then the new school year starting, plus, the diet changes and taking extra care of my body now that I’m pregnant and learning club routines, showing up for club moments, and just navigating how I fit into that world in tandem with H learning how to fit into this one around his own job and responsibilities, it’s a lot.

Truthfully, I think he’s handling it wayyyyy better than I am.

The kids adore him.

“You’re not keepin’ this one for like practice, right?” Flames’s teasing precedes him pulling out his Misfit knife. “You’re supposed to do those with dolls or balloons of baby powder.”

“Flour,” I lightly laugh. “And no. Kari’s mom runs You Make Me Daisy-”

“That’s where I buy your flowers from,” H chimes in and drapes his arm around my neck to tuck me into the crook of it.

“So, sometimes-”

“All the time,” grouses my student louder than I’m sure he intended.

“-she runs a bit later than the other parents and because she has no one to help cover pickup, I just let him hang out here. Mostly read books. Occasionally some computer time.”

“I like books more,” Kari informs, under his breath.

“You like Christmas decorations?” Flames warmly tosses in his direction.

He lets his small face curiously curl towards the Misfit slicing open a box. “Yeah.”

“Wanna help me find the best ones in this box?”

“Yeah!” Kari exclaims and leaps out of his seat. “I really like the red ones!”