Page 150 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
“Hi, Daddy! I’m a pretty, pretty princess, and so is Mimi,” Janey, his flirt, said, marker in hand and flashing a fire engine red smile with one of Georgie’s old pageant crowns sitting cockeyed on her head.
“Okay, we can wash that off, I think,” Georgie said, kneeling to get a better look at the four-year-old’s face.
His gaze went to the crib where, at thirteen months, Hermione or Mimi, who’d gotten the nickname because Janey couldn’t quite pronounce the vowel-laden moniker, stood in her crib with her back to them and Faby in her arms.
Good old Faby was still with them and had turned out to be their ticket to winning the Battle of the Births. The Hail Mary he’d been hoping for actually happened. It turned out that they were the only couple that kept their infant simulation doll with them night and day. Thanks to Faby’s high-tech tracking abilities, which had since been turned off, they’d learned that the other participants only took the poor fake baby out of its bag for the challenges. And boom! Their attentive care of that sweet hunk of plastic had put them over the top and made them the winners.
He took a step forward and focused on the doll.
“Mimi, is Faby wearing lipstick?” he asked, and then it happened.
Mimi, the beefcake baby after his own heart with energy for days, did a one-eighty jump—an advanced skill she’d picked up in the baby NFL.
Yep, that’s right! The baby NFL.
Georgie might have nixed the toddler trombone lessons, but she’d caved on the NFL classes, which weren’t much more than music and movement activities. Still, he already saw his Hermione rocking those ninja courses. She gravitated toward the tractor tire in his gym and could fart like a grown man.
A tomboy in the making until…
“Holy, circus act! Janey, what did you do to Mimi’s face?”
Looking like a tiny drunk clown, Mimi stomped around her crib, dragging poor Faby like a caveman.
“She’s a pretty, pretty princess for the pictures, too!” his daughter replied as pleased as punch.
“Pictures?” he repeated.
Georgie gasped. “Everyone is coming early this morning for that CityBeat photo shoot. You know, the one with everyone who’s been with us from the beginning. I told the girls about it last night!”
That’s the other thing. Besides bringing their own trifecta into the world, they’d managed to become a worldwide brand, endorsing items from toys to gym equipment to books. They blogged for CityBeat, CityBeat Rattle, and were frequent guest bloggers on the Belgian Waffle Princess’s page.
Today, their closest friends and family were scheduled to come over for a group photo shoot. Hector and Bobby had the idea of doing an origin piece on them. And, of course, because that was their life, it just happened to be the day when two of his three daughters looked as if they were ready to run off with the circus.
Not to mention, with the outfit he was sporting, he looked ready to join an X-rated rodeo.
He shook his head and stared at the ceiling.
As if on cue, the doorbell rang, and then the door opened.
“Knock, knock! It’s Grandma Lorraine and Grandpa River, and we’ve got Uncle Gene and Aunt Marjory with us.”
Georgie glanced at the clock. “My mom and Wandering River are here with the Gilberts, and they’re early!”
Yep, Howard had kept the moniker and the spiritual yogi vibe, which didn’t bother Lorraine all that much. In fact, she’d even dropped a few pegs on the mega socialite meter. So, all that great sex she’d mentioned—not that he ever wanted to imagine his in-laws doing the dirty—must have paid off.
“Girls, Uncle Hector, Uncle Bobby, and Uncle Barry are here, too, and we have presents.”
“Who all is coming?” he asked his wife, then licked his finger and rubbed it on Mimi’s face, trying to remove the marker.
“Daddy, that’s gross!” Lizzy said, completely aghast.
“You’re right! Why did I do that?” he answered, staring at his finger covered in spit and red marker.
“It must be a parenting instinct,” Georgie said, kneeling next to Janey and staring down at her spit-covered red fingertip.
“Son? Georgie?” called his dad, which meant Maureen, Mia, and Mya had arrived.
The doorbell rang, and one of the bajillion people who’d let themselves into their home answered it.
