“Dad, why does Jesus have a scary beard?” My eight year old Rhett whispers.
“I don’t know…Maybe they couldn’t shave back then.” I whisper back.
“Oh,” he nods. It seemed to make sense to him.
Twelve year old Scarlett looked over at us, trying to see what all the whispering was about. I waved my hand at her to tell her it wasn’t important.
Charlie had crawled into my lap halfway through the sermon. He was five now, but still my little man. He was half asleep by now.
(Y/N) was at home, on bed rest. Ella or Robert could be born any day now. I would be a dad to four. That would be scary. Horrifying.
But I was happy.
“You alright, babe?” He asks. You were lying on your stomach on top of him.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” You say.
He strokes his hair. “You know, this could be us every night.”
“Yeah but we’d have kids, so it would be weird and awkward to do this every night. What if they had bad dreams or something?” You say.
“Ok, well then every other night.” He grins.
“That might work.” You laugh.
“By the looks of it, we’ll have lots of little kids on our hands.” He winks.