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 |  pieces created in response to prompts |
| The picnic was Angelica's idea. Most of them are. Add six years old, creative, with a budding gift for magic, and ideas were something that we didn't lack in our house. But all things considered, a picnic was a good idea. I liked it, with all the brooding, nesting, aching, pregnant bits of me, and so a picnic we would have. And, with any luck, the exercise would convince the stubborn, overdue child inside that it was time to come into this world. “Picnic! Picnic!” That was Nic chanting at the top of his three year old lungs. I didn't mind, much. The squeals were a background noise that proved that he was still alive. At least it wasn't the quiet expectant hush that happened when they were mischief making. What could go wrong on a picnic. I paused as I finished the last sandwich and closed my eyes. I shouldn't have thought that. Now, there was no telling what would go wrong, but something was sure to. I tried to put out of my head all the possibilities. Doors into nowhere. Frogs, Kelpies disguised as unicorns. Mud castles made of the garden. And that was just the most recent list of dire possibilities. My children were precocious and young, which was a recipe for chaos. Behind me, Michael rubbed gentle circles on my back. I was vaguely surprised he could find it. I was wearing my biggest and ugliest dress because it was the only thing left in the closet that almost fit around my bulk. “Sit down,” he murmured. “Let me finish this.” I just shook my head. I'd been up and moving all day. At two weeks past my due date, there wasn't much that I wouldn't give to meet the lazy, stubborn, frustrating little baby that . . . I took a couple of deep breaths. That wouldn't do. He or she was going to feel like I didn't want . . . the sweetest, most magical, cleverest baby that ever was about to be born. “I'll be fine, Sweetie,” I said, while Nic and Angelica spun circles around the room with the sounds of trumpets and a cloud of pink glitter. “Angelica!” She wrinkled her nose at me and the glitter and fanfare faded away. I loaded the sandwiches into the cooler, shut it, and then pulled the possibilities to add the special treat. “There we are.” I turned and pointed at the ground. Angel and Nic paused their mad gyrations and looked up at me.”What are the rules?” Angelica rolled her eyes and they chorused, “No running off, No glitter. No transformation,” that was the biggest word Nic knew, and he sounded so proud, “No new doors. No animals.” “And?” “No magic at all in front of anyone but family.” I nodded. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Michael suppressing a smile. Which was fair enough. He didn't see what home looked like—the stories I told after the fact with a hint of humor. He didn't know the sheer terror our kids could be. But there was every chance . . . I cut the thought off because I didn't want to consider everything that could go wrong with a simple family picnic. “Perfect. Are you ready for some fun?” Nods all around. I took Michael by the hand and we moved together to open the door to our favorite park. The children whooped with excitement as it appeared. Michael made a quick scan to make certain no eyes were on us, and we were off. Fifteen minutes later, the blanket was down on a table (yeah, no way was baby and I going to sit on the ground), the food was out, and the children were no where to be seen, although I could hear shrieks of laughter and splashing, which I wasn't terribly looking forward to dealing with in the near future. I pressed my hands on the table to get up, but Michael shook his head. “I'll get them.” I smiled at him. “Check near the water.” “Water?” I closed my eyes and sighed. Right. “I guess I need to add a rule.” He chuckle and headed off towards the play area. In a moment, I felt him clean up the mess and then they were chattering explanations as they came to the picnic table. “No one saw us do it,” Angel said with her pout. “Turtle.” Nic said, and held it up to show off. It was small and militant and had a tortoise shell helmet. The poor thing looked half drowned and scared in my little boy's hands. “Sweetie, that's not a turtle. And it doesn't like water in its wings. Please put the little pixie down so he can go home to his mama.” Nic sighed and let it go. It flitted off with an angry buzz. We had a few minutes of calm while the children ate. Michael sat beside me, rubbing my back, which was nice. I'd been aching for days, now. It was so peaceful here in the park in the shade of the oak while the sun shown down and the birds sang and the pixies flew towards us in battle formation. I stood so quickly that the bench tipped over backwards, Michael sprawled on the ground, and the children looked up and laughed. And it was at that moment, as we were being attacked by hordes of pixies angry at the fact that my children had tried to drown one of them in play, while my husband lay on his back and the children gathered cherry tomatoes to throw at their new playmates that my water broke. Chaos. I doubled over with a contraction—this baby was coming fast—tiny arrows and cherry tomatoes were flying through the air, shouts from all sides, I did notice that Angel was changing arrows to more tomatoes in order to have ammunition, which did have the benefit of getting pointy objects out of the equation, but Nic had disappeared, leaving only a little, blue eyed pixie where my son had been, and I would have to stop that, but I was covered in cherry tomato and I was in pain and anxious and the pixies were almost close enough to bite. I screamed, and everything stopped. In midair. Making the pixie queen madder than ever. She stomped her foot in the air. “My son is sorry. He's very young and didn't know.” I paused and doubled over with a scream as another contraction took over, “But I don't have time to play war games right now. I'm about to have a baby.” Pain. “Right. Now.” Michael sprang up with a panicked shout. The next minutes passed in a haze of shrieking children, flying pixies, the last remnants of the food fight and pain. But the queen took charge in less time than it took to think about it, lying me down on the picnic table with a curtain made of the blanket held by an army of pixies while my children played with hers amid one of Angel's glitter bombs, and suddenly it was over and Michael was catching. And because this is my life, after the perfect little boy, two perfect little girls made their entrance into the world. Triplets. I looked at Michael. I knew we'd be outnumbered at the third, but this was ridiculous. The queen was happy with the outcome (her eggs hatched in multiples as well, of course), although she made it clear that she thought our process a great deal too messy to be believed. I sat there on the picnic bench, cleaned up as well as possible with the babies in blankets pulled from home. “Angelica. Nicolas. Come meet your little brother and sisters.” Angel came over with a frown, Nic a blue eyed pixie clinging to her ear. “Three?” She looked at them, and smiled. “They're so cute. And only one boy?” “This is Jaxon. And your sisters are Sylviana and Karibel.” In a flash, my big boy was back, reaching his hand to touch little Kari's cheek. “So cute.” And then came the special treat, shared with the army. Chocolate covered strawberries for all. Word count: 1382 Prompt 3: International Picnic Day (6/18) AND International Panic Day (6/18)(Please combine the above two International Days into one prompt) |
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