James's eyes go wide and he tries to warn me. "No poosy, Daddy."

Now I'm full-out laughing my a.s.s off.

Kate throws her hands up in the air. "Well, that's just perfect! Now he's going to spend the next two days with your parents talking like a foulmouthed little hooligan. What's your mother going to think?"

I sober slightly, still smiling, taking her hand in mine and holding it against my chest. "Considering she's the woman who had to raise the first foulmouthed hooligan? I think she'll have an enormous amount of sympathy for you."

Kate grins. "Which is totally deserved. I swear, between the two of you, I don't know how I keep my sanity."

"It's the s.e.x. If raisins are nature's candy, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g is its antidepressant. It's the best way to maintain good mental health."

An o.r.g.a.s.m a day keeps the psychiatrist away.

Kate crosses her arms doubtfully. "Sure it is. That sounds an awful lot like when I was pregnant and you told me women who performed oral s.e.x more often were less likely to develop preeclampsia."

I point my finger at her. "That was totally true! I read an article about it."

How awesome is that? If I wasn't sure before, after that I was certain-G.o.d is definitely a guy.

"In what magazine? Playboy?"

"Men's Health."

Feeling left out, James tries to get another laugh out of me. "Poosy!"

I ruffle his hair. "Now you're just showing off."

Kate scoops him out of the chair and holds him close. "Are you done with breakfast, baby? Do you want to sing with Mommy?"

He claps his hands.

Most of James's likes and dislikes mirror my own. He hates broccoli. Female sportscasters get on his nerves. And he despises televised figure skating. But he loves Kate's voice.

Oh-and her b.o.o.bs. See how he bends down to rub his face against them? Reveling in their symmetrical, cushiony softness.

I nudge his shoulder. "Dude, we've been over this-they were loaners. You're cut off now."

Kate breast-fed for the first year. Weaning was h.e.l.l. Not that I blame the kid-if Kate told me her perfect t.i.ts were off-limits? I'd pitch a f.u.c.king fit too.

James's little face scrunches up-like Damien from The Omen.

He grabs on to Kate's shoulders with both hands and yells, "Mine. Is my mummy!"

I pull her a little closer to my side. "Technically, she belongs to both of us, buddy. We can share. But those?" I point to Kate's b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Those are mine."

He ups the volume. "No. Is mine!"

Sigmund Freud would have a field day in this house.

I shake my head. "I don't think so."

"Is my mummy!"

Getting into a yelling match with a two-year-old is not a good idea. That's a battle that cannot be won.

Kate pushes my chest. "Stop teasing him. And go shower-we're gonna be late."

I kiss her forehead. Then, behind her back, I point to myself and mouth to James, Mine.

He blows a raspberry at me. Smart-a.s.s.

As I back out of the kitchen, Kate starts to sing. In that soft, flawless voice that still makes me weak in the knees.

And stiff in the crotch.

I know the song-"Jet Plane" by John Denver-but she changes the lyrics to fit the situation.

'Cause we're leavin' on a jet plane We'll be back on Sunday again Oh, James, we love you so.

Kate rocks back and forth slowly, and James's deep brown eyes turn to her alone. He looks up at her with complete adoration. Overwhelming worship. Total devotion.

It's the same way I look at her. Every day.

I'm not a big fan of humility. But watching the two of them like this? It makes me feel humble. Fortunate. Like how Joseph must have felt seeing his wife hold baby Jesus. Just so f.u.c.king lucky to get to be a part of something so beautifully sacred.

We're leavin' on a jet plane We'll be back on Sunday again Oh, James, we love you so.

I drag my eyes away and head for the shower.

Chapter 3.

We get to my sister's place a little after 7:00 A.M. The apartment is a madhouse-the sounds of yelling kids, talking adults, clattering coffee cups, and barking dogs fill the air.

Well . . . one barking dog. His name is Bear-he's a Great Dane. I got him for Mackenzie last Christmas because Applejack the pony didn't exactly work out as I'd planned. Despite some serious begging, pleading, and negotiating, the b.i.t.c.h wouldn't break down and agree to let the pony I bought Mackenzie for Christmas live with them. Her main reason was the Central Park West Homeowners a.s.sociation.

If you're not familiar with these types of organizations, I'll fill you in. They're the geriatric version of the gestapo-composed mostly of bitter, wrinkly old bags who lie in wait for someone to do something they don't approve of.

Such as hang a gaudy wreath on the door or play music too loud . . . or convert a bedroom into a barnyard stall.

Instead of trying to buck the system and risk eviction procedures, Steven and Alexandra relocated Applejack to my parents' place upstate-leaving my poor niece without a live-in pet. Which was utterly f.u.c.king unacceptable. Hence-Bear.

He's awesome. And big. Sort of like a pony's dwarf cousin.

But he's gentle-great with kids-even though he has no idea how large he actually is. He's always trying to climb into Alexandra's purse or sit on Steven's lap-which can make breathing difficult.

Kate and I walk into the living room with James on my shoulders, and Bear welcomes us with deep woofs and s...o...b..ring licks. We greet the parentals, and Kate heads into the kitchen with my mother-rattling off a list of instructions and unloading James's paraphernalia for the overnight stay. I put my son on his feet and he waddles over to the corner where his cousin Thomas is quietly constructing a tower of blocks.

If Mackenzie is my sister Alexandra's twin? Tommy-boy is all Steven. He's a little underweight for his age. But long-lanky. His hair is dark, his eyes are blue and thoughtful. Thomas is easygoing. Laid-back. The perfect yin to my son's Tasmanian-devil-like yang.

With a diabolical giggle, James obliterates Thomas's tower. But he doesn't complain. He just starts building another one. I wrestle with Bear a bit, until my sister walks in with a cup of hot coffee for me.

I take the cup and gesture toward Bear. "How's the house-training going?" Bear has a weak bladder. And though it doesn't detract from his appeal, he's not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed.

"Fantastic-if the goal was to turn my nine-thousand-dollar Persian rug into his p.i.s.sing ground."

I glance at the rug in question. "He's got good taste. That's a fugly rug, Lexi. I'm thinking about p.i.s.sing on it myself."

"Funny."

I sip my coffee. "I try."

She leads me toward the adjoining dining room. "I talked to the wedding planner last night and finished the seating chart. Take a look."

The wedding.

Okay-most guys would rather have their teeth pulled than have any involvement in the wedding planning. Sorry to break it to you, ladies, but we don't give a s.h.i.t about colors or centerpieces or the embossing style of the G.o.dd.a.m.n invitations. If we act as if we do, it's only because we're smart-and we're trying to keep you off our backs.

As long as the bride looks good and those mini hot dogs are served during the c.o.c.ktail hour? We're there.

So in the beginning, I happily left all the details of the big day to Kate and my sister. But then I started hearing such words as low-key and small, intimate affair and nothing too ostentatious. And I had to step in.

Because when an Olympian wins the gold medal, do they have a small, intimate affair?

Of course not.

They throw a f.u.c.king ticker-tape parade.

Which is the least of what Kate deserves. Because she did what everyone-including the members of my immediate family-thought impossible. She bagged me. The grand prize-the unattainable-the megamillions jackpot.

That should be celebrated. In a huge way.

Plus, a woman's wedding day is supposed to be special-unforgettable. She only gets one. This is particularly true in Kate's case, because shortly after James was born, we had that whole discussion about what we would do if one of us kicked the bucket early. You've heard of that "It's a far, far better thing I do" guy in A Tale of Two Cities? The one who sacrificed himself so the woman he loved could go on to live with another man?

f.u.c.king pansy. He deserved to hang. I'm not him.

Sure, I want Kate to be happy-but I want her happy with me. Or no one at all. So if I bite the big one before her? She's just gonna have to muddle through on her own.

Single.

Celibate.

Because if she hooks up with another guy? Has my son calling some loser Daddy?

I'll haunt her. Forever. Like, The Grudge style.

You think that's awful, don't you? Selfish, possessive, egotistical?

And this surprises you why?

Anyway-back to the wedding. Once I took over the reins, things got jacked up a whole lot of notches-no expense spared, no detail overlooked. Alexandra and I work great together. Her hyperactive planning and organizational skills coupled with my micromanaging and determination for the perfect day have made a stupendous combination. We also have the a.s.sistance of Lauren Laforet, the most sought-after wedding planner in the city, making sure all our big plans become a reality.

Prince William and Kate can kiss my a.s.s. Amateurs. We've got this wedding-of-the-century thing in the bag.

On the dining-room table sits a model of the Four Seasons ballroom, with dozens of miniature tables and hundreds of name-labeled chairs perfectly arranged.

I'm impressed. "This is amazing."

She pushes a strand of blond hair behind her ear, contemplating her handiwork. "I know."

I notice one table doesn't look right. I'm about to comment, but a commotion in the living room signals a new arrival. I move to the doorway to see who's here.

"Woof! Woooof!"

It's Brangelina. Otherwise known as Matthew and Delores. Curious about the nickname? You'll see.

"Get off me, beast!"

Bear has a real hard-on for Dee-Dee. Literally. He tries to violate her every chance he gets. Maybe he's just h.o.r.n.y. Maybe he likes how her a.s.s smells. Maybe he instinctually senses that she's a freak who'd be into b.e.s.t.i.a.lity-I don't know. Whatever the reason?

Funniest f.u.c.king thing ever.

"Matthew, help! He's licking me! He's drooling on me!"

"Down, Bear!"

Steven appears and drags the hot and bothered hound out of the room. Dee-Dee adjusts her outfit-a green silk halter jumpsuit, with a royal-blue poncholike cape and silver stiletto heels. Reminds me of a strawberry-blond, hazel-eyed peac.o.c.k.

Matthew pounds me warmly on the arm. "Hey, man."

"Hey."

Then Mackenzie walks into the room. She's taller than the last time you saw her-she'll most likely get to five feet ten by the time she's done growing. Her hair's still long and blond with a slight curl; she's wearing blue jeans, Converse sneakers, and a pink Yankees jersey. She's a month shy of nine now-in this day and age, that's practically a preteen.

Mackenzie is a masterpiece-and I take full credit.

She's polite, brilliant, feminine-but not in a screechy afraid-of-spiders way. She watches sports-not to get the attention of some little p.r.i.c.k, but because she knows what a two-point conversion and a technical foul are. She paints her nails and plays guitar. She's confident but kind. Best of all, she takes s.h.i.t from no one. Yeah-that's all me.

Even though I have my own son now, she was the first. The only girl. A piece of my heart will always, always belong to her.

"Hey, sweetheart."