"The voice of parents is the voice of gods, for to their children they are heaven's lieutenants."
-Shakespeare

If someone had told me nine years ago that my life was going to be where it is now, I would have laughed in their face.

But the truth is that just when you think you have your life all figured out, something changes. Just one little thing, and suddenly you are thrown back into the chaotic turmoil of living.

Except, in my case, it wasn't a little thing. It was a big thing. It was more like being hit by a truck. Actually, it was Tony nearly dying, but it still hurt like hell.

Up until then he was just Tony. Flirtatious, immature, pain-in-the-ass DiNozzo. But coming that close to losing him? Well, let's just say death is a funny thing. The idea that someone who has become such an irreplaceable part of your life can just disappear, just go forever...

The realization that if they die, there's no going back, no second chances; it's enough to make anyone realize what their heart has been telling them all along. It's just sad that it takes so much to make people see.

Our first date came two weeks later in a small café in downtown Washington. It was…perfect. I can still hear the music playing in the background, the clink of wine glasses, the quiet murmur of conversation.

If I concentrate properly, I can feel the warmth of Tony's hand on mine, the brush of his lips as we kiss for the first time, and the look on his face over the flickering candles as we break apart. I think that was the first time I realized that I really loved him.

Because that's what it was. Simple, uncomplicated, straightforward love.

Fast-forward nine years. One wedding and four pregnancies later, we are our own little family. Life isn't perfect. In fact, most of the time it's complete chaos.

But we're happy, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Smiling slightly, I watch Mia stir the cake mixture round the bowl with a wooden spoon. Flour is in her brown curls, over her face and more of the mixture seems to be on the floor or round her mouth than in the bowl.

It's hard to imagine anything messier than baking a cake with an excitable six-year-old.

I watch as she spoons up the mixture and, poking her tongue out with concentration, and places it in the cake cases.

"All done, Mommy," she announces proudly, as she finishes her last one, "Now can I ice them? I want to use the sprinkles we got, and the sugar flowers and the Jelly Tots and the sparkly balls and…"

I laugh at her eagerness and move forward to take the tray of fairy cupcakes, "Sure we can." I say "But after they're cooked, right?"

"Of course, silly" she says, rolling her eyes at me "They wouldn't taste nice if they weren't cooked, would they?"

I look at her, in amazement.

"Did you really just roll your eyes at me? How old are you again?"

"Seven" she says proudly

"It was a rhetorical question," I inform her, "And actually you're not 7 for another three months"

"Whatever" she pouts, sulkily, with an amazing amount of attitude for a 6 year old.

"Sometimes," I tell her, "you are just so much like your father"

I open the oven and slide the tray in, securing the oven door when I'm done. When I turn back, Mia has disappeared, but I can hear her footsteps running down the garden path, and then her laughter mixed with Lynette's coming from the garden.

I survey the messy kitchen. It looks like a disaster zone after a bomb hit.

"Mia-a!" I call, and the garden suddenly goes quiet. I call her again. A giggle, and then she comes running in.

"Yes, Mommy?" she says, making her brown eyes go huge, playing the cute and innocent card.

"Did you forget something?" I ask. She shakes her head firmly.

"Nuh-uh. Don't think so, Mommy."

I gesture round the kitchen. She looks back at me, her brown eyes huge, so much like Tony's. All of our kids have his eyes, and his nose come to that. But Mia was the only one to inherit his sense of humor – something which worries me slightly.

"So, who's going to tidy up this mess?"

"Well…" she begins with a sly smile, but I cut her off mid-sentence."No way, missy. You can't go out to play until you've helped me tidy up in here."

She sighs, resigned. "Alright."

I hand her a cloth. "Good girl. You can wipe up the flour, and I'll load the dishwasher."

We work for about five minutes, listening to the faint sounds of Lilly gurgling in her pram in the corridor, and Lynette and Ben playing in the garden until Mia's little voice chirrups into the quiet.

"Mommy..."

"Yes?" I answer distractedly

"Mommy…" there is a pause, as if she is desperately trying to work something out

And then "Where did I come from"

I turn to look at her, her face screwed up in puzzlement, still holding the flour-covered dishcloth.

"You came from Mommy's tummy, sweetie," I answer simply.

"I know that!" she says impatiently, "But how are babies made?'Cause you can't just press a button and then a baby appears, that would be…" Her eyes suddenly grow wide, "Is that how they're made?"

"No, Mia," I reply, resisting the urge to laugh at her unadulterated innocence. I squat down until my eyes are level with hers.

I wonder, for a moment, if it is too soon to tell her the truth, wonder if she's too young to hear it, but I brush it off. After all, I console myself, if she is old enough to be asking, then surely she's old enough to be hearing the answers.

"OK, Mia," I warn her, "This is a big girl thing I'm gonna tell you, so you have to be sensible about it."

She nods solemnly, and I take a breath before continuing.

"Well, when a mommy and a daddy love each other very much, and decide they want a baby…"

"They can't be a mommy and a daddy if they don't have a baby," Mia interrupts, "'Cause otherwise everyone would be a mommy or a daddy, even if they don't have kids, and then…"

"OK, OK," I say hastily, "Fine. When a man and a woman love each other very much and decide they want to have a baby, they have sex."

Deep breaths. Now we're getting into dangerous territory. You would think that after Secret Service and NCIS training, plus four kids; I would be prepared for anything.

"What's sex, Mommy?"

Think again. This question gets me every time.

"Well, when a man and a woman have sex, the sperm from the man…"

"What's sperm?"

I think for a moment.

"Like little tadpoles," I say at last.

"Like the ones in our pond?"

"Exactly," I continue, "The sperm meets with an egg, inside the mummy's tummy, and a baby is made."

She wrinkles up her nose.

"So I am an egg, and a tadpole?"

"Sperm," I correct, "And not exactly. You're you, but you were made from an egg and a sperm."

She is quiet for a minute, turning the new information over in her head, and I turn back to wiping the table.

"So you and Daddy had sex four times?"

I blush slightly, her question catching me unawares.

"Mia!"

"What?"

"You can't…" I struggle to find the words

"But I'm right aren't I" she says with the worldly conviction of a six year old

"Young lady, that is absolutely none of your business". The color of my face is deepening rapidly.

Mia smirks, and then a look of dawning realization crosses her little face.

"Ohhhh" she says, as everything suddenly makes sense, "that's why men have wibbly wobbly bottoms!"

A/N: Hope you enjoyed it! This is a repost of a story on my old account. Inspired by my sisters, Ellie (4) and Rosie (6) who are the most adorable sisters EVER and have an amusing habit of asking the most awkward questions in public :)

If you liked it please, please, please, with a Michael Weatherly on top, leave me a review. It's that little purple button down there :)

Lovee, Lilli xx