“Happy Father’s Day!”
Pinkie jerked awake with a shriek, then tumbled backwards out of her bed, slamming into the floor with a loud bonk. She lay there, dazed, for just a moment, until Foxtrot swam into view—her pink coat matching Pinkie’s own, her mane light brown and bobbed, with her horn poking through.
“Mama!” she cried. “Are you okay?”
Pinkie giggled, pulled her close, and kissed her on the cheek. “More than okay,” she said. “You just startled me, is all.”
Foxie frowned, then picked at a strand of Pinkie’s mane. “Your hair’s gone all curly again,” she said, slightly mystified.
Pinkie picked at her mane as well, now all back to its normal, curly state. “I think it’s gonna be like that from now on,” she said. “Most days, at least.” She hesitated. “Do you like it?”
Foxie stared at it for a moment, then nodded. “I think so,” she said.
Whiskey and Tango appeared around the side of the bed, Tango worried, Whiskey with a grin on her face. Whiskey, her oldest, trotted over to her side. Her coat was dark-chocolate brown, and her mane long, wavy and hot pink. “Time to get up,” she said, grabbing Pinkie by the forehooves and pulling, flapping her wings for extra leverage. She was almost strong enough to pull Pinkie up but herself—almost, but not quite.
Tango sighed, then leapt up on the bed. “Never gonna work that way,” he said. He trotted over to Pinkie’s legs, still tangled in the bedsheets, braced his forehead against them, and pushed. Tango was an earth pony like her, and had inherited her curly mane and tail, too, though her coloring had been lost somewhere in translation. His coat was the color of chocolate milk, save for the four white socks that went halfway to his knees, and his mane a dark brown, like Whiskey’s coat.
Tango pushed until Pinkie’s legs slid off the bed and onto the floor, then Whiskey, with the help of Foxie’s magic, pulled Pinkie into a sitting position. Pinkie leaned back against the bed and sighed as Whiskey, Tango, and Foxtrot snuggled into her lap, their chests heaving from the effort.
Pinkie sat there for a long moment, feeling their warm bodies against her, and smiled. She yawned, then looked up at the clock. “What are you little boogers doing up at three-thirty in the morning, anyways?” she asked.
Foxie looked up at her and smiled. “I-I-It’s Father’s Day,” she said, trying and failing to suppress a yawn of her own. “We wanted to do something special for you.”
Pinkie reached down and mussed her mane fondly. “But I’m your mama, silly,” she said. “Mamas have their own holiday. Father’s Day is for daddies.”
Tango snuggled a little closer to her. “We know,” he said. “But we don’t have a daddy, so…”
“...so you get seconds!” Whiskey cut in.
Pinkie laughed aloud, then leaned down and kissed each of them. She knew they could be… difficult—heck, half the town locked their doors when the three of them went exploring—but to her, they had been nothing but sweetness.
Well, nothing recently, she corrected herself. In a moment of anger, Twilight had once called them “hellions”—and, though she loved them to bits, she had to admit that Twilight wasn’t wrong.
But it helped that she had her Pinkie Sense. It didn’t always work on them, but when it did—well, she could’ve sworn she’d heard them talking one time, after she’d sent them to bed early, wondering about how on earth she always managed to show up right as their plan was about to go off. “It’s like she can telly-port,” Tango had whispered into the darkness. Pinkie had almost burst out laughing.
And it hadn’t hurt that she’d locked her party cannon in the cupboard under the stairs. She’d had nightmares for weeks after she discovered Whiskey clambering inside, and Tango trying to figure out how to work the firing mechanism.
“Oh!” Foxie yelped, sitting up. “Almost forgot!” She scrambled to her hooves, then, as the other three watched her, she bowed grandly and gestured out the door.
“Mad-dam et madda-moi-sell,” she pronounced carefully in awful Prench, “Breakfast is served.”
Instantly, Whiskey and Tango were on their hooves, and had scrambled out the door. Pinkie climbed to her feet, and, led by Foxie, made her way downstairs.
“I hope you guys didn’t use the big stove,” she said. “You know I told you not to—”
“Don’t worry,” Foxie chirped. “We didn’t.”
Pinkie realized suddenly she didn’t know which she was more worried about—that they had made breakfast without using the stove, or that they had made breakfast without using the stove. She decided not to think too hard about it.
As Pinkie descended the stairs, she saw that they had already turned on the downstairs lights. Tango stood at the bottom of the stairs, pressed, ramrod straight, against the wall. He held the little privacy chain that stretched across the stairwell in one hoof, with its “PRIVATE” sign—the one that always made him giggle a little—dangling free by the floor. Pinkie nodded grandly to him, which he returned with a bow. As soon as she passed, she heard the chain clank against the floor, and Tango trotted eagerly up beside her.
Pinkie stepped down into seating area of Pinkie’s Pies, the bakery that she’d managed to pull together basically on her own. It wasn’t much, but it sold enough to keep everyone fed. The seating area, with dark green wallaper and hardwood floors, had only three or four tables, for those that wanted a quick sandwich or cup of coffee, or just for those who wanted to wait while Pinkie sliced their bread fresh. Whiskey stood by one of the tables, set crookedly with a white cloth and four place settings. In the center of the table sat an enormous glass bowl of—something.
“Oh,” Pinkie said, as Foxtrot led her to the table and sat her down. Pinkie tried to fak a smile. “How… nice. It’s, um…”
“Oatmeal!” Whiskey volunteered helpfully. “Just like you always make it!”
It was most certainly not how she always made it. It was a stomach-churning gray, foul-smelling and bubbling unpleasantly.
She looked uncertainly between the three of them, desperate to stall. “Thank you,” she said, “but didn’t I tell you not to use the stove?”
“We didn’t!” Foxie chirped again. “We microwaved it!”
Oh sweet Celestia, my poor microwave.
She put on a smile. “Looks great!” she said, standing. “Let me just—”
“Nonono!” Tango cried. “We’ll serve it! Just sit and enjoy.”
Pinkie sank uneasily back into her seat as Tango ladled not one, but two steaming scoops into her bowl.
So much for that idea, she thought unhappily.
After everyone had been served, Tango sat down, and, without preamble, the kids began to shovel great spoonfuls of the “oatmeal” into their mouths. Pinkie herself took a tiny bite; the kids were so busy eating their own helpings that no one noticed her almost retch, glance around uneasily, then pour most of her helping back into the giant bowl.
Pinkie waited until they were almost done, then stood. “Well, you little boogers,” she said fondly, “It might be time for me to be up—but you need to be back in bed—”
“No!” squealed Tango. “We haven’t done the best part yet!”
Pinkie mentally groaned. Well, can’t be worse than breakfast…
The three of them leapt down from their chairs, then huddled around her. “Close your eyes,” Tango commanded, as Whiskey took her by the hoof. Pinkie obeyed.
She felt them lead her through the seating area, past the counter, and back into the kitchen, only bumping her into loose chairs one or twice on accident.
“Now, open!” cried Tango.
Pinkie opened her eyes—and stared. Slowly, her eyes began to water, and she put her hooves to her mouth.
Laid carefully out in front of her, on the big, butcher-block table in the center of the kitchen, were a half-dozen sheets of paper, filled with drawings, painted hoofprints, and more than one “4 mama” in clumsy, childish print. And, at the center of the table, stood a round, double-layered cake, frosted pink, with what must have been a pound-and-a-half of pink sugar poured on top. And, on top of the colored-sugar apocalypse were four ponies drawn carefully in colored frosting—a big pink one, a surrounded by three little ones, in brown, cream, and pink. And, above them, in giant letters, read “WE ♥ MAMA.”
Foxie grinned proudly up at her. “I did the cake,” she said brightly.
Whiskey huffed. “Pumpkin and Pound did the cake.”
“I decorated it,” Foxie corrected herself, in the same tone. “We all did ourselves, and I did you.”
Pinkie turned back to stare at the cake. Dang, that kid is good. A juvenile effort, of course—but, then again, Pinkie herself hadn’t been that good at age nine. Even in its current, rough state, she could still see clearly the makings of a master cake decorator.
Too bad we pretty much sell just bread, she thought.
But even this thought was not enough to stifle her joy. Pinkie let out a little squeal, then scooped them all into an enormous hug. “You guys,” she said, “you didn’t have to do this…”
“Yes, we did,” Tango said. “Aunt Cheerilee said—”
“Missus,” Foxie corrected.
Tango shot her a glare. “Mrs. Cheerilee said that we have to do nice things for the ponies we love—”
“And we love you,” Foxie finished for him.
Whiskey looked up and smiled. “So,” she said, “We made you a cake—just like you make us all those cupcakes for school!”
Pinkie squeezed them all a little tighter. “Love you too, you little boogers,” she whispered. “Love you—and thank you. So much.” She smiled. “You’re all a mama could ask for.”
At that, Foxie giggled, Whiskey beamed, and a slow smile spread across Tango’s face.
Pinkie held them like that for a while, then looked up at the clock and gasped. “Right,” she said. “It’s way too early for you boogers to be up.”
“But you’re up this early,” Whiskey said, accusingly.
“Because I have Mama things to do,” Pinkie replied. “Now, get on back upstairs and try and get some sleep. And we’ll have that cake for lunch, okay?”
“O-o-okay,” Tango groaned—then yawned.
Pinkie giggled herself, then set them down. “Now, get,” she said, nudging them forward. “See you in the morning.”
She watched the three of them as they climbed the stairs, then listened as they trooped into their bedroom and closed the door. Pinkie chuckled to herself, then walked to the foot of the stairway and re-hooked the “PRIVATE” chain across it. She went back into the kitchen, clicked on the radio to some soft old rock ballad, loaded up the coffee maker with four generous scoops of coffee grounds, then stepped outside. She walked to the white picket fence surrounding their little yard—doing her best not to notice the flaking paint, nor the weeds poking up through the grass—then leaned on the fence by the gate and stared out at the horizon, the first, faint light of the summer dawn just beginning to make itself seen.
She watched it for a moment, listening to the silence of the sleeping town, then chuckled to herself. This was not the life she would have chosen, if she’d been given the chance—midway through her twenties, with three kids already, and no one to help her out… waking up at four in the morning to keep everyone happy, healthy, and fed... spending so much of her time helping others that she barely had a moment for herself…
But—she thought back to the kitchen, to the hoofmade cards, to the Father’s Day cake, to the feeling of those three warm little bodies pressed up against her—and smiled. It was hard—but mornings like this made it all worth it.