It's Mother's Day.
I feel more like a momma than a mother.
Really, more like myself than either.
In honor of me having babies, Jesse rode his bike all through Fullerton, collecting flowers before the sun came up.
I briefly woke when he left.
I can imagine him riding his little brown Huffy circa 1975.
Loading the front basket with the roses that were the prettiest.
The roses that were reachable.
The roses that smelled the best.
When I woke later my bed was empty.
I could hear some light strumming of a guitar downstairs
along with soft voices reciting the morning world news.
I checked my phone.
8a.m.
Time for me to pump.
Milk.
Jesse must have heard me getting out of bed.
He ran up stairs with his presents in tow.
"Happy Mother's Day!"
He set the vases on our nightstand.

I told him that he would get paid thousands of dollars to arrange flowers, if the right person discovered him. But that he would have to move to Manhattan, and wear a bow tie, and he couldn't laugh so loud anymore.
He got suspicious that I was teasing him, but I wasn't.
They were so dimensional.
They flowed from left to right like a great sentence, or like they were being pulled to the right by a tear in the space-time continuum.

Later we walked to Nick's diner for breakfast.
As we passed houses on the street, I noted the familiar roses and wondered if they were the sisters and brothers of the adoptions I had back in my room.

At Nick's we refilled our coffee three times.
We talked about the future.
About us and our boys and how unbelievably great the rest of our lives will be, no matter what.

Afterward we visited Reese and Elliott in the hospital. I discovered they had left Mother's Day cards in their cribs for me. We sat with them for three hours. Jesse's parents came to visit.
It felt almost like home.

In the evening we made pizza and drank soda.
Better than Christmas.