the interview | Nikki Sixx

The clock was ticking down on New Year's Eve, 1993, and while the rest of the world was partying their way into '94, I was parked on the worn-out couch in our living room, wearing a sequined maternity dress I had no business squeezing into, legs up, and a glass of sparkling cider in hand. Sixteen weeks to go. Baby number two was kicking up a storm like they were practicing their debut solo.

Gunner was passed out on the floor in a sea of wrapping paper and action figures from Christmas, snoring softly with a party hat still crooked on his head. Nikki was in the kitchen with Tommy and Mick, putting the finishing touches on a ridiculous midnight snack spread that looked like a stoner's fever dream—pizza, Doritos, brownies, pickles (my idea), and an open jar of peanut butter.

"Alright, mama," Tommy said, walking in with a tray like he was a damn maître d', "I brought you the good stuff."

I arched a brow. "If that's not a brownie with pickles on top, I'm not interested."

He set the tray down with a grin. "A woman of taste."

Nikki followed behind him, sliding onto the couch next to me and pressing a kiss to my temple. "You doing okay?"

I nodded. "Just tired. This baby is using my organs as a trampoline."

Tommy dropped onto the rug beside Gunner, snagging a slice of pizza. "So... are we all pretending it's not weird that you're due in April?"

Nikki chuckled. "We like a spring release schedule."

Mick, ever the voice of darkness, muttered, "Like a damn album drop."

I smiled down at my bump. "Well, this little one is already stealing the spotlight."

Nikki rested his hand over mine on my stomach, feeling a soft kick under his palm. "That's a Sixx move if I've ever felt one."

We all gathered around as the countdown started on the tiny TV—Dick Clark blurry in the background, confetti raining down on Times Square. Tommy handed out more sparkling cider and shouted like it was whiskey.

"FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE!"

The room exploded into cheers and noise-makers, even as Gunner snored through it all. Nikki leaned in and kissed me deeply, gently, his hand still resting protectively on my belly.

"Happy New Year, Mrs. Sixx," he whispered.

I smiled against his lips. "Happy New Year, Daddy Rockstar."

Tommy stood up and raised his glass. "To 1994—new music, new babies, and hopefully fewer arrests!"

Mick raised his glass without looking up from his plate. "No promises."

I looked around at my messy, loud, ridiculous family—and I couldn't help but think this was the perfect way to ring in a new year. Full of noise, laughter, and a whole lotta love.

May couldn't come fast enough.

Tommy cranked up the stereo, blasting "Kickstart My Heart," and Gunner jolted awake from his nest of wrapping paper with wild bedhead and a confused expression.

"Why's it so loud?! Is it baby time?!" he yelled, half-asleep and totally panicked.

I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my cider. "No, baby, not that baby time."

Nikki scooped him up and sat him in his lap. "It's a brand-new year, little man. You made it to '94."

Gunner blinked, then lit up like a Christmas tree. "Does that mean I get cake?"

Tommy gasped, "That's exactly what that means." He ran back to the kitchen yelling something about Funfetti and almost slipped on a Hot Wheels car.

I rested a hand on my bump, feeling a steady roll beneath my skin. This baby was already wide awake and probably grooving to the beat of their dad's bass line. I swore they moved every time the guys turned up the volume.