Today was Sylvia’s first time venturing out to the farmer’s market. She was still in the van but had insisted she wanted to be here in case we needed help with the babies, which we probably would. We might have outnumbered our three little ones, but they knew how to keep us on our toes in the very best of ways.
The market wasn’t even open yet when I had a line at my table. I could pretend all day long that they missed the few weeks I was gone and wanted my pickled onions and applesauce, but they were there for the babies 100 percent.
They oohed. They aahed. They told us they were the most adorable babies on the planet, which was fact. But between my three and Rumor’s two, it was baby-and-toddler admiration central.
Quite a few of the booth owners dropped off baby gifts as well. Some were homemade like the items they sold, others adorable onesies and stuffed animals from the local store, but all of them given with love and acceptance.
I hadn’t expected it. I knew that this place meant a lot to me, but I didn’t realize I meant a lot to this place.
I was sold out by noon, as was Harlan, but we stuck around, taking new orders and talking to everyone. By the time we went home, I was done. Ready to go to sleep for at least a year.
So were the kids, all three of them falling sound asleep on the way home.
We brought them upstairs and set them in their cribs, shocked when they stayed asleep, but also grateful. It meant we had some time to be together, the four of us.
We took off our clothes, shifted, and climbed into my nest then snuggled together in our wolf form. Together as a pack, in the truest sense.
My pack.
The Flower River pack.
Home.
