Chapter 11

The wet dreams of all wet dreams, featuring both Uncle Bob and George, woke me up in the middle of the night. I must have cried out or made some sort of noise because Mom opened my door, "Mags, you okay, Doll?"

I was drenched with sweat and my feminine juices, but otherwise I was intact. "Just had a wild dream. I need to change my sheets -- among other things."

She laughed softly and turned on the lamp sitting on my dresser. "Wash off and change, while I strip the bed."

When I came back, in my dry panties and tee-shirt, we made the bed and I noticed for the first time that she had a bowl of chocolate ice cream topped off with fresh peaches. She had been up getting a snack.

"Want a bite?" she offered, as she propped herself at the head of the bed; pillows supporting her back.

I took one of the slices of peach, then stretched out next to her, and rested my head on her tummy. The baby was kicking.

"Hello, Sixth Munchkin," I said softly. "You came from Cabbage Patch Three-O-Seven, Row Sixty-Five, Cabbage Head Twelve, Leaf Number Six. You're hand-made by God; each part of you nothing like anything anyone has ever seen before; nor will they ever see, again because God only makes one of a kinds. You're special and unique and I can't wait to hold you, count your fingers and toes, beep your nose, and change your diapers and everything else that I get to do because I'm your Big Sister."

Mom was sniffling, and when I kissed her tummy, she wrapped her arms around me and kissed the top of my head. "Another of Maggie's Brat Patrol to be deprogrammed."

The younger kids had passed on their knowledge of where they came from to anyone who asked, and when later faced with the sperm and the egg, had refused to believe any such nonsense. I spent several hours convincing them that God used this way because love between and man and woman was special and one of the best way to express that love was through having a baby... if they could and it's what they wanted to do. My version was a way of showing my love to them through telling them things that were special just for them. And that God was okay with my version of things because He had given me a creative heart.

I giggled and she kissed me again. "I love you, you one of a kind brat."

"I love you, too."

We fell asleep, giggling and talking.

I sat down for breakfast and Mom said, "Honey-Bob, are you feeling okay?"

She called me Honey-Bob and used plain Honey for Dad. It kept things from getting confused. And with all the confusion in my family, one less confusion is always welcome.

I assured her that I was fine; and like always, she ignored me and insisted on taking my temperature.

The reading was normal, as I knew it would be, but she insisted that I drink a cup of hot tea with honey and lemon, which I did like any sane son.