by Max Monroe
And an hour into our car ride, I was thankful for full bellies and iPads.
This, my friends, was life with kids.
When we were at home, my wife and I strived to feed our girls healthy meals void of fast food and high-fructose corn syrup. We also did our best to keep them active versus sitting around staring at the television or an electronic device all day long.
But in the car, with a fussy eighteen-month-old and an outspoken and cranky five-year-old, we only cared about keeping the peace. If a Happy Meal and My Little Pony on Netflix was the solution, then by God, we accepted it with open fucking arms.
First lesson of parenthood: Pick your battles.
Second lesson of parenthood: Take everyone else’s lessons and tell them to fuck off. What works for one kid doesn’t necessarily work for another. Do what works for you.
Right now, as we headed up Route 17, headphones, iPads, and French fries were working for me.
The car was joyously free of whining and tears, and only the soft sounds of Frank Sinatra serenading us with holiday tunes filled my ears.
Thank everything.
“Are you ready to enjoy a quiet Christmas at the cabin, baby?” I asked and reached out and patted my beautiful wife’s thigh.
“You have no idea how ready I am.” Georgia smiled, and then after a few blissfully quiet moments, she pulled her planner out of her purse.
Oh God. Not the planner…
With a flip of her wrist, she opened it to her bookmarked page. “There is so much to do, Kline. The second we get to the cabin, we need to get unpacked, get the tree, decorate the house with lights—”
I’d been doing everything in my power to stay one step ahead of my wife with this holiday schedule of hers. She wanted a perfect Christmas with her family and friends, but I feared she was going to drive herself literally crazy trying to control and plot out every detail.
She meant well. I knew she meant well. Hell, after spending several holidays with her family, and watching shit hit the fan every single time, I understood her need for a flawless holiday. But holy shit, I feared my Georgie was near the brink of imploding.
And it’s really hard to fuck a collapsed bucket of mush. I hadn’t tried, but I was a man and I could visualize. Not nearly as appealing as my wife in her current state.
She didn’t even realize she was going over the top with this, so I saw it as my responsibility to make sure she didn’t step too far over the line.
Again with the imploding and lack of fucking, etc.
“The tree and lights are already taken care of, Benny.”
“What?” Her eyes went wide with surprise. “What do you mean, they’ve already been taken care of?”
“I hired someone to hang the lights for us. They’ll be at the cabin around noon, and all you need to do is tell them where and how many.”
Now, I’d never been a fan of wasting money on things I could do myself, but when it came to my wife’s sanity—and my own—I didn’t give a shit about the cost.
“I’m really happy about the lights, but what about the tree?” she asked. “Tell me you didn’t just have some random person pick out our Christmas tree, Kline. It’s tradition that we—”
“Don’t worry. We’ll be picking out our tree,” I corrected. “I contacted the owner of the tree farm you fell in love with when we bought the cabin. All we need to do is pick the tree out ourselves,” I added with a smirk, “and he has someone ready to deliver it and set it up for us.”
“Wow. Kline. I…” Georgia looked over at me. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly parted in a little “o.”
Speechless.
Fuck yeah. One win for me.
I placed my hand on her thigh and squeezed gently. “We’re a team, Benny.”
She smiled and a few moments later, whispered, “Thank you.”
Little did she know, that gorgeous smile of hers was the only thanks I needed.
Happy wife. Happy life.
When we made it to the cabin, the girls took off for their room, Julia patiently helping Evie up the stairs, and Georgie went right to work.
Instead of trying to redirect her to relaxing, loosening up, or something that was more enjoyable than closely studying her to-do list, I took the opportunity to head out back and get some firewood chopped for the next few days without interruption.
Georgia usually teased me that I liked to do it myself, with an old-fashioned ax rather than a wood splitter, no less, but it never changed my mind.
Something about the repetitiveness, simplicity, and physical exertion of splitting logs by hand cleared my mind and settled my soul.
This was life. This was love. This was me providing for my family in a way my relatives used to before life got so complicated.
Once I started, though, I was fully involved. So it was actually a surprise when Georgia came out a couple of hours later to tell me that Thatch and Cassie and their kids, Ace and Gunner, had arrived.
I wiped some sweat off of my forehead with the back of my arm and smiled at the look in my wife’s eyes. She might tease me about chopping wood, but it turned her on tremendously.
“Okay, baby. I’ll come in and take a quick shower. Then we can get busy on your activities list.”
All of the arousal swimming in her eyes doubled in volume.
Who knew Christmas talk was the way to go?
I almost laughed as she bit her lip and shifted to squeeze her legs together.
“Cass is already protesting organized activity.”
She was still smiling, which was eerie given her words. I couldn’t help but question it.
“That doesn’t upset you?”
She winked and clapped her hands together with glee. “I’d already built in five hours of settling time while I sorted the lights—which you already did—so I just made up a bunch of stuff so she’ll be more amenable later when I really want to do things. Right now, she thinks she’s getting one over on me.”
“Quite cunning, Mrs. Brooks,” I congratulated.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Brooks,” she accepted with a jump, twist, and kick of her foot as she headed back to the house.
I quickly stacked the smattering of logs I’d just split and followed her in.
The shower was hot and glorious, and the only thing that would have made it better was some company from my wife. But I knew better than to expect her to pop in when she had four kids and Cassie and Thatch downstairs to keep her occupied.
I got dressed quickly in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt and trotted down the stairs to the sound of Thatch’s booming voice.
He was even more animated than normal, and it drew me straight to the kitchen like a magnet, out of curiosity to find out what had him so fired up.
When I got there, I found him with his ass on my counter, long legs hanging nearly to the floor, and Georgia and Cassie were looking on as he talked at his phone to someone on FaceTime.
“Tell me Mitchell’s hamstring isn’t acting up!”
Ah, Wes.
Wes’s answering voice was annoyed. “Stop making up injuries, for Christ’s sake. Mitchell is fine, Sean is fine, Bailey is fine, the whole team is fucking fine. But I swear on the perkiness of Cassie’s tits, you won’t be fine if you keep trying to jinx us.”
Thatch’s face darkened. “You can’t threaten my wife’s tits! That’s a personal foul, asshole.”
“Hmm,” Wes muttered, unfazed. “I can, and I did. Flat, saggy, meatless tits. That’s all you’ll have to play with for the rest of your life if you don’t cool it.”
Thatch’s face turned panicked as he looked to Cassie to confirm the curse hadn’t already set in. She squeezed them together and let them bounce before rolling her eyes. “Perky and full, Thatcher. Relax.”
Georgia charged though, using the opportunity to snag the phone from his hand.
“Wes—”
“Hi, Georgia,” he greeted.
She waved a hand in front of her face and scrunched her nose. “
Yeah, yeah, hi. Can you put Winnie on?”
Quite frankly, I didn’t even think any of them had noticed I was in the room yet.
Wes sighed but passed the phone. I could hear Winnie’s laugh as she took it. “Hey, Georgie!”
“Hi! I’ve got a list for you so you can tell Lex what to expect. Do you have a pen?”
Lex, Winnie and Wes’s daughter, was high-functioning on the autism spectrum. Schedule, planning, and advanced notice were comforts for her, and with one simple comment, Georgia made it clear—even with a brain full of chaos—she had a mind to that.
Thatch and Cassie glanced to me, and all at once, all of us fell more in love with my wife.
This was why we were here.
This was what kept us coming back for more.
This was what made me one of the luckiest guys alive.
Please Come Go Home for Christmas
December 23rd
Only one alarm and zero snooze buttons, and I was up and out of the bed before my husband. Consider it a record and the complete opposite of the norm. Kline was much better at being on time, always waking up at seven on the dot every morning, and I had a long-standing track record of running fifteen minutes behind.
But not today, people. Not freakin’ today.
I had too many thoughts of Christmas to-do’s swirling about in my holiday-fueled brain.
“What time is it?” Kline asked, his voice all raspy and sleep-filled. Goodness, he sounded sexy. I had the urge to crawl back into bed with him.
Stay strong, Georgia! Do not give in to temptation.
“It’s half past seven,” I answered, but I also kept my holiday game face on. Instead of losing precious planning time worshiping my husband’s naked body—don’t worry, I’ll make up for it tonight—I slipped on a pair of jeans, a thermal shirt, and my favorite cream sweater. If this outfit didn’t scream rustic cabin and happy holidays, I didn’t know what would.
I know. I know…You probably think I’m going slightly overboard with this, but I honestly think anyone who has had to experience a lifetime of tragic holiday celebrations with my family would do the same.
One Christmas, Aunt Rhonda called Blanche Devereaux a floozy whore who never should have been allowed to be a character on The Golden Girls, and I had to tamp down the urge to rage just so I could hold back my mother.
“Baby, it’s too early.” A soft, tired groan left his lips as he turned onto his back and patted the empty spot beside him. “The sun is barely up. Come back to bed.”
“Nope,” I responded, sitting down on the chaise lounger and slipping on my coziest and cutest pair of gray boots. “There is too much to do, which means I have no time to waste.”
“Benny,” Kline taunted. “Everyone is still asleep,” he said, and his voice had dropped to a deep and seductive tone. “I promise you there will be no wasting of time in this bed.”
Oh, Lord. Please give me strength, I silently prayed. Surely, Jesus would understand my dilemma. It was His birthday I was trying to make perfect.
“Baby, come back to bed,” he repeated, and my knees started to buckle.
Oh no… Don’t look at him. Don’t even make eye contact with him.
I closed my eyes and said, “No, Kline. I have too many things to get done today.”
“Well, at least come over here and give your husband a kiss.”
I opened my eyes and blew him a kiss from the doorway, and he smirked.
With his blues glimmering and his hair all tousled and sexy, my husband was too tempting for my own good, and a real kiss was too persuasive on the wrong side of the battle with my vagina.
But my husband wasn’t taking my shit, floozy, temptress vagina or not.
“Not good enough,” he stated and sat up in the bed, his bare and toned torso peeking above the white comforter. “A real kiss, Benny girl.” He made a little come-hither motion with his index finger.
“One kiss.” I put a defiant hand to my hip. “One kiss and no monkey business. Got it?”
He grinned. “Got it.”
I strode with purpose, closing the distance between us, and the instant I leaned down to give him a gentle yet very PG kiss to his lips, he snagged his arms around my waist and yanked me back into bed with him.
“Kline!”
He chuckled and flipped me onto my back, maneuvering his strong frame above mine. “God, you’re beautiful.”
Shit.
He kissed my neck, and my body betrayed me, a moan slipping past my lips.
Double shit.
“Kline,” I half whined and half moaned when his greedy lips moved across my neck and up to my ear. “I don’t have time for distractions.”
“I thought I was your husband.” His quiet, amused chuckles pushed warm air against my skin. “Not a distraction.”
“Right now, you’re both and one hundred percent evil.”
He leaned back, and his blue eyes met mine. “I’m just a man who is crazy in love with his beautiful wife.”
This man would be the death of me. One day, I’d swoon myself straight into a fluffing coma.
“You’re truly the sweetest, most perfect man I know, and I love you deeply,” I said and touched his cheek. “But right now, I can’t let you unleash that swoony charm of yours on me. I have one million things to accomplish before this day is done.”
He quirked an adorable brow. “Swoony charm?”
“Oh, don’t act all naïve and innocent.”
My husband smirked and pressed a soft, tender kiss to my lips. “Okay, I will let you off this bed, but only under one condition,” he said. And then added, “Actually, make that two conditions.”
“And what would those conditions be?”
“Put on a pot of fresh coffee, and promise me that tonight, after we put the kids to bed, I get to distract you in this bed as much as I fucking want.”
“Deal.” I pressed a smacking kiss to his lips. “Now let me go so I can get a move on it.”
“You got it,” he whispered, and after a playful slap to my ass, he let me on my determined way.
After a quick peek into the girls’ bedroom to find them still sound asleep, I headed downstairs to the kitchen. I smiled to myself when only the gorgeous sounds of silence filled my ears. Everyone else was still in bed, and I could ease into my day without chaos. I was damn near giddy over the thought.
Once I preheated the oven for today’s breakfast of cinnamon rolls and filled up the coffee machine with fresh water and set it to brew, I sat down on one of the wooden kitchen barstools and started to peruse this morning’s agenda.
Christmas To-Do’s
December 23rd:
1. Laundry: Wash the adults’ and kids’ pajamas for Christmas Eve.
2. 9:00 a.m.: Cinnamon Roll Breakfast.
3. 10:00 a.m.: Grocery store for fresh items for Christmas Eve dinner and Christmas Day breakfast and dinner.
4. 12:00 p.m.: Make Your Own Pizza lunch with the kids.
5: 1:00 p.m.: Make (and wrap) the dads’ Christmas gifts from the kids.
5. 2:00 p.m.: Christmas Story Time with Santa Thatch.
6. 3:00 p.m.: Wrap presents with Cassie.
The coffee machine dinged its gorgeous alarm, and I glanced away from my agenda and focused on the first order of business for today: coffee. Once my veins had reached their daily caffeine quota and breakfast was in the oven, I could dive headfirst into today’s planned events.
I hopped off my barstool and grabbed a Santa-themed mug from the cabinet, and moments later, my taste buds danced over that first sip of fresh brew.
There really was nothing like that initial sip of coffee in the morning. Pure heaven, I tell you.
With my mug in hand, I took in the cabin’s wooded views while I finished the morning’s first cup of coffee. Slightly distorted snow-capped mountains and evergreen trees told me that seeing everything from the window wasn’t enough. I wanted to feel the crisp temperature against my skin and inhale the fresh mountain air, and I
wanted the edges of nature’s beauty to be stark and defined.
After tossing on my jacket and scarf, I headed out onto the back deck. Between the peace and quiet and the breathtaking sights, it was better than I’d remembered. This view was exactly why Kline and I had decided to purchase this rustic cabin.
Gosh, I love this place.
I grinned to myself and lifted my mug to take another sip of coffee, but my hand paused in midair when I heard a faint, “Come out here!” coming from somewhere behind me.
What the heck? I swear that sounds exactly like my dad…
My eyes went wide for a beat until I realized it would be absolutely ridiculous and impossible for my parents to be anywhere near our cabin. They knew nothing of our plans nor our location, and they’d never been up to our cabin before now.
I laughed to myself as I shook off the absurdity of my thoughts. They weren’t here. I’m imagining it.
“Dick!” a different, still very familiar voice called, only louder this time. “Where are you?”
“I’m outside! Come check out this view, Vanna! You’re going to love it!”
What in the ever-loving shit? Fuck, fuck, fluffing fuck.
I strode across the deck and headed for the porch. Coffee sloshed out of my mug with every other step, but I didn’t care. I had to see if what I was hearing was real.
I rounded on the cabin, my heart beating very nearly out of my chest, and I peeked around the final corner with fear filling my whole body from bottom to top.
A giant RV occupied every square inch of our front yard.
Like, literally every square fucking inch.
Not to mention, my father, Dick Cummings, stood outside the RV’s door in a red velvet bathrobe, bare legs covered only by a pair of black galoshes, and a giant smile consuming his face.
“Georgie!” he called toward me. “We made it!”
My jaw didn’t hit the ground; I was pretty sure it just fell right off my fucking face.
“Dick!” my mother shouted as she opened the RV door. “Oh! There you are!”
