Page 10 of Hampton Holiday Collective
“Come on, Uncle Dumpy. You promised!” Wesley whines, reaching for my brother’s hand and tugging. Dempsey grins at my boy, equally eager to get on with whatever game he’s committed to playing.
I can’t help but smile at the sight of the two of them together. Wesley is like Dempsey in so many ways: my quiet, thoughtful son. He’s a stoic little saint and the least likely to cause mischief. Most days I don’t have to actually parent the kid, which is a relief, since his little brother creates more than his fair share of chaos.
“Hey, who’s on Wyatt duty?” I ask with a pointed look.
“Winnie’s got him,” Wes assures me, mimicking my expression as if to question how I could possibly doubt him.
Not even a second later, a resounding crash rings out from the living room. Dempsey and Wes rush toward the noise, while Daphne and I exchange an exasperated look.
“Your turn,” she chides, her tongue in her cheek.
If she says so. I don’t bother keeping track anymore—we both respond to multiple Wyatt riots each day. If Wesley is our little saint, Wyatt is, without question, our little devil.
“Don’t think you’re getting out of dishes, either!” Daphne calls after me as I follow the boys toward the commotion.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, angel.”
I wink at my wife over my shoulder then stumble over my own feet when her eyes flare with heat. She schools her expression quickly, though, like we often do with three kids in the house, shaking her head at my salacious attempt at flirting.
“Go,” she grits out with a grin.
I shrug off her mock-scolding. What can I say? It’s not my fault she’s hot as sin and looks exactly like what I want to eat for Thanksgiving dessert. Maybe there will be a little homemade whipped cream left over after we serve the pie tonight that I can put to good use.
We’ve been together for more than seven years, and the only itch I’m scratching is the one that makes me want to nail her into the mattress every single night and put as many babies in her as she’ll allow.
We’re at an impasse about whether we’re done having kids. I’m typically team keep going, but the daily disasters from Wyatt are enough to keep my breeding kink in check most days.
By the time I enter the sunken living room, there’s an entire scene unfolding before me. Wyatt’s on the floor, but not of his own volition if his big brother’s position straddling his chest is any indication. Winnie, our oldest, has her hands on her hips and is scowling at her younger siblings in disapproval.
“A little help here, Dad,” Wesley grunts from where he’s got Wyatt pinned.
“What seems to be the problem?” I ask, lifting Wes off his three-year-old brother, who pops up and immediately clambers up onto the ottoman.
“Here, take this,” I grunt toward my brother, thrusting my five-year-old into Dempsey’s arms before lunging for Wyatt. I snatch him up and brace him against my chest just as he squats low, ready to launch himself off the back of the couch.
“What do you think you’re doing, little devil?” I question playfully, giving him a gentle noogie as he flails and tries to dislodge my grip.
“I’m in da pa-wade!” he wails, trying his hardest to wiggle out of my hold.
My focus instantly goes to Winnie. She speaks Wyatt. And she knows that I have no idea what the hell he just said.
“He said he’s in the parade,” she translates with a roll of her eyes. “He thinks he’s a giant balloon, like the ones on TV this morning.”
“Is that so?” I spin a few times, and instead of clinging to me like most kids would, Wyatt leans back, arms flung wide, bursting with happy squeals from the adrenaline rush.
This kid’s too much. He loves hard. Plays hard. He goes all out, all the time.
“Which one are you, then?” I ask, righting him after a few more rotations so I don’t have to clean up puke.
“I’m da gween one!” he screams, his little arms swinging in front of his body in an attempt to cross them.
I meet Wesley’s and Dempsey’s gazes. They’re wearing almost identical exasperated expressions—matching furrowed brows and pursed lips—but neither can hide the curiosity in their eyes, like they want to see how far I’ll take this.
“Which one is the green one?” I fake-whisper out of the corner of my mouth.
“I think it’s Baby Yoda,” Wesley advises.
“I thought it was Kermit!” Winnie chimes in.