Royal’s voice from outside my hospital door makes me instantly forget the searing pain between my thighs from birthing a nine-pound baby at three AM this morning. Apparently, Royal and I make some big babies. But they’re so darn adorable that it makes up for all the less than pleasant things that go along with that. “Hey, baby,” I say softly when our three-year-old son tiptoes into the room behind his father. It’s his first time being in a hospital, and judging by his apprehension, he’s not quite sure what to think of it. Beckett carries a bouquet of lilies in his hand, the hand attached to the arm that’s currently broken and wrapped in a neon green cast, because two weeks ago, he decided to climb into the old tree house at Nana and Papa’s. He snuck in there when no one was looking and fell when he attempted to climb down the ladder. I’ve been trying to talk my parents into taking it down.
