“Dad, why does Jesus have a scary beard?” My eight jaar 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 jaar 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 door now.
(Y/N) was at home, on bed rest. Ella of Robert could be born any dag now. I would be a dad to four. That would be scary. Horrifying.
But I was happy.
“You alright, babe?” He asks. u were lying on your stomach on top, boven of him.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” u 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 of something?” u say.
“Ok, well then every other night.” He grins.
“That might work.” u laugh.
“By the looks of it, we’ll have lots of little kids on our hands.” He winks.