Grey Hearts and Flowers

We're Home

I'm back! Thank you so much for all your patience! More stories coming as I've gotten back into writing. I know I put the Christmas one-shots in here but now we're back to the timeline of the story with the babies coming home just after their July 4th birth.

And don't worry, Freed is coming really soon! ❤️❤️❤️

"Lavender and chamomile," I say to Taylor as we stand outside Ana's hospital room, waiting for the final clearance to bring her and our newborn sons home. Dr. Greene is, of course, taking her own sweet billable time. But, it offers me a moment to plan for Ana's homecoming—which has to be perfect! "I want our bedroom to be like a fucking five star spa experience when she gets there. Soft accents, florals—I need a fuzzy robe..."

"Would you like it to match your pajamas, sir?" Taylor asks.

Why does he look so excited talking about my tantamount nightwear?

"The robe isn't for me!" I say, and then I think. "But maybe you could get coordinated ones for us. So we look like a solidified newborn parental unit." A fuzzy one at that.

"Yes, sir."

"And music... no heavy beats. Something soft, lovely, with an air of classic romance— but nothing too sexually charged." That ship has sailed for the next sex weeks—I mean six. Hell, now I've got sex on the brain.

"Sheeran, sir?" Taylor says.

"What the fuck is that?" I ask.

"Ed Sheeran. A contemporary crooner with poetic flare that seems to tickle the ladies, sir."

"Uh, I'm going to try and forget that you ever said that," I glare. "Sinatra, Taylor!"

My phone buzzes. I pull it out and see it's a text from my sister. She's sent me a picture of a gargantuan glittery eye blinding blue lawn sign out front of our house that reads: It's a Boys! Welcome Home Baby Greys!

What the fuck.

Why did she put that out there? Why not just deliver the info to the overhead helicopter paparazzi via private jet that the babies are here and coming home.

What the hell is that? I text her back.

I made it for the party!! 🙃🎉🎂👶🏻👶🏻

Party?!

And emojis... I hate emojis.

Well, except with Ana. Especially when she texts me the eggplant and the flying water along with a picture of her panties...

Sex weeks Grey—I mean six!

What party???! I type. I feel that the three question marks and exclamation really drive the point home. Without emojis.

That, and I was so frustrated with six weeks I kept stabbing the punctuation keys.

All I get is that endless fucking ellipses from her...

Like what the hell is she typing that could possibly take two trips and a backwards flip around the sun to send?

Ana's coming home party. We have t-shirts. She finally writes.

T-shirts?!

There's no party, Mia! I furiously thumb assault the keyboard on my smart phone. I hit send so fast I didn't realize autocorrect changed it to: There's no pants, Miami.

But there are tutus!! She texts me back a picture of her, Phoebe and Ava in blue glitter cone hats, T-shirts that look identical to the lawn sign, and tutu style blue party skirts.