Lily turned and asked if Noah was okay.
“Yeah,” he said, sniffling just a little.
She kissed him on the forehead and didn’t leave his side after that.
“Are you crying?” Ty asked me when he finished his story.
“I’m not crying,” I said, wiping my eyes. “You’re crying.”
We love them more than we could ever say.
But that doesn’t mean they don’t exasperate us.
Like now.
Because Noah is in his little suit, lying on the floor, grinning up at us, head resting on Princess Celestine. “Hi!” he says, waving a little hand up at us. “Hi, Daddy! Hi, Papa!”
“Shh,” Lily says. “Patients can’t talk before surgery. You’re asleep because of drugs.”
“Shh,” Noah tells Otter and me. “I can’t talk afore sergys. I’m on drugs!”
Yes. Definitely our children.
“Surgery,” Lily corrects him gently. “I need to take out your spleen. It’s infected.”
Noah smiles up at her adoringly.
“Lily,” Otter says. “You can’t operate on your brother now. You know we have to go.”
Her eyes narrow just a little above her mask. “But he could die.”
“I don’t wanna die,” Noah says cheerfully.
“He doesn’t want to die,” Lily informs us.
“I think he’ll make it through the day,” I tell her. “If he’s still sick by the time we get home, we can schedule the surgery then.”
She sighs like we’re the most difficult people in the world. “You never let me do anything.”
“I highly doubt that’s true,” Otter says, crouching down in front of her. He reaches up behind her head and unties her surgical mask. She’s frowning a little when it slides from her face. “You know today’s a special day.”
She nods slowly, dark hair bouncing on her shoulders. She had green ribbons in her hair. Noah (of course) had seen them and loudly demanded that he get ribbons in his hair too. Lily had thought that was only fair, so now they matched even more than they had before, her in her green dress and him with a tiny green tie that had caused a lump in my throat for reasons I didn’t quite understand. I’ve learned over the years that being a parent means being exhausted, elated, frustrated, amused, confused, and on the verge of tears at pretty much every moment of every day.
“And the two of you have a very big responsibility,” I say, helping Noah off the floor and brushing the back of his suit, smiling as he giggles and tries to twist away. “Uncle Ty would be very sad if you guys couldn’t be there.”
“And we wouldn’t want that,” Otter says, tugging lightly on the ends of Lily’s hair, causing her frown to melt away. Regardless of how much a tomboy she is, she’s a daddy’s girl through and through. She worships the ground Otter walks on. I was jealous of it when it first started showing but accepted it quickly, since Noah seemed to gravitate toward me. It’s just how things are.
“And we can go at the same time?” Lily asks. “Uncle Ty said we could.”
“Same time,” Noah agrees, his thick mop of messy hair falling all over the place. We’d learned early on there was no taming it no matter what we did. I reach down and brush a lock off his forehead. “Please, Papa.”
“Well, if Uncle Ty said it,” I say slowly, like I’m still considering it, even though we all know I’m full of shit. Because it doesn’t matter what we say, if Uncle Ty says it, it’s law. Because no matter how much our children love us, no matter if we’re their parents, if asked, Lily and Noah would tell you that Uncle Ty is perhaps the greatest person to have ever existed. We’re pretty great, and Izzie is awesome (Noah’s assessment), but Uncle Ty? He’s absolutely the best thing in the world (Lily’s assessment).
“He said it,” Lily says.
“To both of us,” Noah adds fiercely.
“And it’s his special day,” Lily reminds us. “So we have to do whatever he wants.”