The day Wendy had told Stan she was pregnant was the same day Stan had come home from work to find his newly wedded wife ripping out weeds and bushes from the small patches of dirt under the windows of their home. When Stan had crept up behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head he'd discovered just what she'd been doing. "I'm planting tulips," Wendy had explained, tilting her head back to look up at him, face smeared with dirt and looking beautiful with it. Why was she planting tulips at the end of September, Stan hadn't known. But Wendy must have had a reason, she always did.

And sure enough, later that evening when they'd sat curled up on the sofa, digging into two day old Chinese food, he'd found out why.

"I'm pregnant," Wendy said. "I'm... I'm pregnant." The tone of her voice made Stan's heart sink. She sounded scared, a tone Stan rarely heard from his headstrong wife. It broke his heart a little, that Wendy thought this was something to be nervous about. Which made Stan question himself, mind skipping joy and excitement and heading straight to worry. They'd just gotten this house a few months ago, from savings and gifts of money from the wedding they were still paying off. They made decent money, but they had their bills and a mortgage. And now... a baby? Stan wanted to kick himself for thinking of money instantly, instead of responding to Wendy's announcement. Because the look of concern and doubt was clear on his face, surely. Everyone always said Stan was as easy to read as an open book.

He could see the tears welling up in Wendy's eyes, hands shaking as she held her paper plate and fork. "Oh, oh fuck. Wendy, no, please don't cry. I didn't mean it like that," Stan sputtered, trying to do damage control. "You just... You looked sad! And I just started thinking about bills and how we're gonna afford a baby too an-" So that was the wrong fucking thing to say, apparently, because the tears fell and Wendy hung her head over her plate. Her body shook as she burst into tears, hiding her face with her dark hair. She flinched away from Stan when he reached out to try and hold her, further crushing Stan's heart.

"Fuck, Wendy, I'm sorry! I'm an idiot," Stan cried, desperate to try and fix it. "I should have known something was up, I mean you've gained a bit of weight and I figured it was just us eating take out all the ti-" Stan was cut off again by wailing, Wendy tossing the paper plate and utensils onto the coffee table before leaping off the sofa and dashing to the bathroom to slam the door behind her. Not leaving his plate, Stan took it with him as he ran after her. "Wendy!" Stan called through the door, leaning forward to whack his head on it. "I'm sorry, I'm stupid. You know that. I didn't mean you got fat, I was just trying to say I'm an unobservant asshole!"

The crying stopped for a few minutes, and he heard her blow her nose into some tissues. "Yes, you are," Wendy agreed through the door.

They stayed silent for a few moments, Stan shoveling fried rice into his mouth. "How far along are you?" Stan asked, and Wendy pulled the door open to look at him. She stared at his plate in hand before rolling her damp eyes and wiping at her face. "Seven weeks, almost eight." Jesus. That meant she'd gotten pregnant on their honeymoon, probably. Stan kind of felt proud of himself, thinking maybe he'd even done the job on his wedding night. He could feel the smirk on his face, and Wendy looked at him with an expression that didn't say she was amused. "Think it was the night we got married?" Stan asked, and Wendy sighed.

"Maybe," she said, hand going to rest on her stomach before she gave it a small rub. "And you've gotten fatter too, Stan. You're not even pregnant, so what's your excuse." Wendy had timed this just as Stan shoved a large forkful of rice in his mouth. He looked at her, then at his plate, and then back to his wife again before shrugging. "I dunno," he said, tone stupid and muffled with food. He swallowed before speaking again.

"So, we're gonna have a baby, huh?" Stan asked, and Wendy nodded, unable to keep the smile off her face as Stan leaned forward to place a big, greasy kiss on her lips.

Wendy's pregnancy had gone far from smoothly. She'd been hospitalized twice, losing weight and losing blood, and almost losing the baby each time. But his wife and his son were one and the same, fighters who refused to be separated from one another. And Stan stayed by her every step of the way, holding her hand, brushing back her hair. Helping Wendy to the bathroom and staying there with her to support and console her every time she passed more blood. Things weren't easy, things weren't cheap. Medical bills, though better than they had been when Stan and Wendy were children, were still costly. The doctors had assured them both that there was a high chance they'd lose the baby. That there was a chance Stan and their son could lose Wendy. That Stan could lose them both.

But Wendy, the strongest thing Stan had ever witnessed. She had kept herself alive. Their child alive. And even if she was heart broken that she couldn't deliver naturally, she stayed awake through the Cesarean. Something Stan couldn't ever imagine doing, something he had struggled with simply watching. Watching as they sliced open his wife, and just... pulled out a baby. Before folding her back together and stitching and stapling her shut. But it was worth it, worth it to see Wendy's lethargic and drugged smile as they handed Richard over to Stan to hold against his chest. Worth it when the last words Wendy said before falling asleep was "I'm surprised you didn't throw up."

Worth it when her first words waking up were, "I can't believe you named our son Dick."

Stan had laughed, stroking his fingers through Wendy's damp hair. Richard had been taken by the doctors for the time being, allowing Wendy some much needed rest. But Stan and her both wanted their son, wanted reassurance that he was safe and as healthy as they could hope for. The nurses had promised them he was fine, that he was adjusting well outside of the womb. They'd been told that most of the problems had stemmed from Wendy, that it wasn't likely she'd be able to carry a child again. That they were lucky Richard survived as well as he did.

"We made this," she said softly, and Stan shook his head before pressing a teary eyed kiss between her eyes.

"Naw, he was all you. I did the easy part," Stan said softly. It was true. Stan did nothing more than drop a dollop of paint onto her pallet before she created a masterpiece.

He was alive, and Wendy was alive. And Stan couldn't care about anything else in the world except that.

Especially when they brought their newborn son back to them, cleaned and swaddled and sleeping. How perfect he looked nestled against Wendy's chest. Stan had seen Wendy looking radiant in her prom dress. She'd caused him to cry when he'd seen her in her wedding gown. Had seen her in little black dresses for group dates with Clyde and Bebe and Kyle and Cartman. Had seen her in slinky tight strapless numbers when they'd gone clubbing for Ike's twenty first birthday. But every moment wherein Wendy had dressed up paled in comparison to how beautiful she looked now, holding their son.

When they returned home, the tulip bulbs Wendy had planted last September had blossomed, a vibrant array of pinks and yellows to welcome them.