“These party favors are super elaborate,” Kerrigan muses as she stuffs a dinosaur tote bag with an assortment of goodies and then ties a ribbon to the handles before placing it on the growing pile of favor bags piling up on the sofa in my office.

“Err,” I hedge. Sure, the personalized tote bags I ordered on Etsy with each child’s name embroidered on it are a bit much. Maybe. But handy, am I right? Now if anyone accidentally leaves without a favor bag, I’ll know exactly who it was so I can get it to them. Besides, if there’s a better way to enjoy billions of dollars than loading things into your Etsy shopping cart, I don’t know it.

“Did you order a unicorn tote with my name on it?” Kerrigan looks up, confused, said tote dangling from her hand.

“I’m so sorry. Did you want the dinosaur tote?” I know I shouldn’t gender-stereotype but since I didn’t send Kerrigan an invitation she didn’t RSVP identifying as a unicorn or a dinosaur, so I just made the executive decision to order her a unicorn tote.

“The unicorn is fine, but aren’t I too old for a party favor?”

“No one is too old for a party favor, Kerrigan.” Hmm. I wonder if I should hide the one I ordered for Violet. And myself. “But you’re getting something different than the kids.” I motion for her to hand me the empty tote while handing off baby Amelia. “Don’t look!” I instruct while I load her tote up with her favorite chocolates and a small haul from Sephora. Then I tie the bag shut with a ribbon and add it to the sofa. “Don’t forget to take that when you leave.”

“I live down the hall,” she points out.

“It’s a really long hallway though. You’re not going to want to walk all the way back when it’s late and you’re hungry and wondering if there was anything delicious in your bag.”

“Fair enough,” she agrees as Violet walks in and Amelia squeals in excitement with a chorus of ‘Mum, Mum, Mum.’

Good Lord, British babies are cute. Which is when it hits me.

“Oh, my God. Your baby already has a British accent.”

“I know!” Violet positively beams in delight as she takes Amelia from Kerrigan’s hands. “I’ve never been more pleased about anything in my entire life.”

She dresses Amelia like a proper British baby. Lots of smocked dresses with tiny cardigans. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out they’re all vintage or exclusively made by British designers. I might need to send her an outfit with a Disney princess stamped on it just to mess with her a little.

Later, after the gift bags have been stuffed and dinner has been served, bath time has been had, and the kids have been tucked into their beds, I finally crawl into my own beside Kyle. He’s beaten me to bed by about fifteen minutes and he’s reading something on his iPad. Something dull about tax rates or the world supply of paper or the population of Cornelius, North Carolina. Who knows? On another night I’d ask him to tell me about it because I like hearing his thoughts, even on subjects that are kinda dry. But tonight I’m distracted.

I glance at the photo hanging over our bed. It’s the selfie I took of us in that hotel room in Boston all those years ago. The photo is cropped and enlarged, printed in black and white so all you can see is the two of us with our heads bent together, laughing. We’ve got kids in the house, after all. We might want to lie to them someday and tell them that photo was taken at dinner and not in bed.

The photo on the lock screen of Kyle’s iPad is me, pregnant and wearing a bikini on the babymoon we took before Kellan was born. He was super into my pregnancy body. Both times. Which, now that I think of it, might make what I’m about to suggest less crazy than I’d initially thought.

“You know, I was thinking.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs.

“We’re doing a terrible job keeping up with the Kardashians.”

“Please don’t tell me you want to film a reality show, because I am not going be able to get on board with that, Daisy.” He closes the iPad and sets it on his nightstand.

“No! Don’t be ridiculous.” I shake my head. “I meant we only have the two baby K’s,” I say, and then I trail off, leaving the idea hanging there in the air between us.

“You want another baby?” Kyle sounds surprised. Oh, God. He thinks this is a terrible idea, doesn’t he? We put the idea of having more on hold after Kinsley and now she’s three and we’re past diapers and maybe it’s nuts to purposely start over.

“Yes.” I glance up at his face to gauge his reaction. “Maybe two more?”

“I think I’d like that,” Kyle agrees with a sexy, lazy smile that would already have me pregnant if I wasn’t on the pill.

“You would?”

“I would.”

“You’re not just saying that? Because I want more?”

“I’d have been perfectly content to keep knocking you up on repeat after Kinsley was born.”

“That’s sweet,” I deadpan.

Kyle laughs and rolls on top of me, dimple on display in all its glory. “Maybe the fourth baby will be twins and we’ll end up with five.”

“Maybe we will.”

“We should practice,” he says between kissing me and lifting my shirt over my head.

“I do love practicing,” I agree as I slide my hands into the cotton pants he wears to bed.

It’s true. I do love practicing with Kyle. And fighting with him. And making babies with him. I love traveling with him. And lying on the couch with him and tucking in cranky overtired children with him.

I’m grateful every day for this life we’ve built together. And for plans that never turn out quite as I’d expected.