An infant's guide to survival; Father's Day:
*Nicholas is overly enthusiastic about Father's Day- more than what Luke can handle.*
The morning dawned like any other morning, which is to say, far too early. Even for a seasoned professional observer of human behaviour like myself, six AM is frankly barbaric. I, of course, am Luke. At least, that’s what the booming voice that occasionally coos directly into my face informs me. Six months old, allegedly. Though internally, I assure you, I’m pushing forty with a mortgage crisis and a mild existential dread brewing nicely. Externally? Well, brown hair, brown eyes – entirely unremarkable. They call it ‘cute,’ which is patronising, to say the least. My sophisticated palate, honed by years of… well, milk, mostly, revolts at the sheer blandness of their compliments.
The day, however, was different from other mornings. There was a tremor of excitement in the air, a buzzing hum of anticipation that even my infant sensibilities could detect. This usually meant one of two things: either the dreaded vacuum cleaner was about to be unleashed, or… something worse was afoot. My fears were confirmed when the door creaked open and Nicholas, my… caregiver, I suppose, practically bounced into the room.
Nicholas. Bless his heart, he’s a good soul. Endlessly affectionate, bordering on smothering. Kind, to a fault. Naive? Oh, spectacularly so. Smart in a bookish, theoretical way, utterly clueless in the practicalities of, say, decoding my nuanced cries for ‘slightly less mushy peas.’ He’s got the same brown hair and eyes as me, only his are framed by laugh lines and a permanent look of bewildered fondness. This morning, however, the bewilderment was replaced by something far more alarming: manic glee.
“Happy Father’s Day, my little man!” he boomed, scooping me up in a hug that threatened to compress my tiny ribcage into oblivion. “It’s Father’s Day! Our first Father’s Day together!”
Father’s Day. I’d overheard the term uttered in hushed tones for weeks. I suspected it involved gift-giving and some form of ritualistic male bonding. Frankly, I wasn’t overly fussed. My needs are simple: regular milk intake, reasonably clean diapers, and a minimum of loud, sudden noises. Beyond that, the machinations of the adult world are largely lost on me.
But Nicholas! Oh, Nicholas was a man possessed. He’d decorated my highchair with gaudy streamers I kept trying to eat (aesthetic disaster and potential choking hazard, double fail). He’d crafted a ‘banner’ – and I use the term loosely – out of construction paper and what looked suspiciously like glitter glue. The message, scrawled in enormous, slightly shaky letters, read: ‘BEST DADDY EVER!’ It was quite frankly embarrassing. I had higher standards for nursery décor.
“Look, Luke!” Nicholas exclaimed, holding me up to the banner as if I were reviewing a prize-winning masterpiece. “Isn’t it amazing? I made it just for you! Well, for us! For Father’s Day!”
I blinked slowly at him. Internally, I sighed. “Nicholas,” I mentally projected, with all the telepathic force a six-month-old can muster, “it’s… enthusiastic.”
He, of course, remained blissfully unaware of my sophisticated critique. “And look at this!” He then produced a truly horrifying garment. It was a baby grow, bright blue, emblazoned with the words ‘My Daddy Rocks!’ next to a cartoon electric guitar. Honestly, even for a baby, it was garish.
“I got us matching outfits!” Nicholas beamed, revealing his own t-shirt, which mirrored my baby grow, only his said ‘World’s Best Daddy’ with the same questionable guitar motif. Matching outfits. On Father’s Day. The sheer cliché of it all made my little baby brain ache.
“Nicholas,” I tried again, this time through a series of pointed gurgles and a strategically placed dribble of drool. “Subtlety. Have you heard of it?”
He interpreted my drool as a sign of excitement. “Oh, you love it! I knew you would!” He wrestled me into the offending baby grow, his fingers clumsy but filled with overwhelming love. I endured the indignity with the stoicism of a seasoned diplomat forced to wear a ridiculous ceremonial headdress.
Breakfast followed, and even that was Father’s Day themed. Nicholas had attempted to make ‘Father’s Day Pancakes.’ They were… well, they were pancakes. Shaped vaguely like hearts, if you squinted and tilted your head and were feeling exceptionally generous. He’d covered them in an alarming amount of whipped cream and sprinkles. Sprinkles! On pancakes! My inner gourmet wept.
“Say ‘Happy Father’s Day, Dada!’” Nicholas prompted, holding a spoonful of pancake mush towards me. I stared at the spoon with suspicion. It appeared to be moving. Was he attempting baby hypnosis now?
I responded with what I considered a perfectly reasonable grunt of protest. He mistook it for baby talk. “Da-da! Yes! That’s it! He’s saying ‘Dada!’ on Father’s Day!” He was practically vibrating with paternal pride. It was… endearing, in a slightly overwhelming way.
The day stretched on, a relentless parade of Father’s Day activities. There was ‘Father’s Day Storytime,’ which involved Nicholas reading a children’s book about a bear and his daddy (predictable plot, pedestrian prose, two stars at best). There was ‘Father’s Day Tummy Time,’ which was essentially the same as regular tummy time, just with Nicholas making even more exaggerated ‘airplane’ noises. And then there was ‘Father’s Day Present Opening.’
Now, presents. That had potential. Perhaps Nicholas, in his naive enthusiasm, had accidentally stumbled upon something of value. A rare first edition of ‘The Art of War’? A miniature espresso maker? Hope, however, was a cruel mistress.
The ‘present’ turned out to be… a handprint painting. My handprint, to be precise, smeared in lurid green paint and pressed onto a piece of cardstock. It was… sticky. And green. And utterly devoid of artistic merit.
“Look, Luke! It’s your handprint! For Daddy! I’m going to frame it and put it on the fridge!” Nicholas declared, holding up the sticky green monstrosity with an expression of pure, unadulterated joy.
I gurgled again, this time with a touch more… exasperation. “Nicholas,” I mentally sighed, “I appreciate the sentiment. Truly. But my aesthetic sensibilities are being assaulted.”
He, of course, remained oblivious. He proceeded to spend the next hour taking ‘Father’s Day Photos.’ Photos of us in our matching outfits. Photos of me holding the handprint painting (sticky green residue now firmly embedded under my fingernails). Photos of us pulling silly faces (my ‘silly face’ is indistinguishable from my regular face, but Nicholas seemed convinced I was hamming it up). Photos, photos, photos. It was photo-palooza.
By afternoon, I was reaching peak Father’s Day saturation. The constant barrage of forced celebration, the saccharine sentimentality, the sheer overwhelming enthusiasm – it was all too much, even for a baby with the inner fortitude of a Roman emperor. My usual fussy tendencies, usually reserved for slightly tepid bathwater or insufficiently soft blankets, escalated into full-blown, operatic wailing.
“Oh, is someone tired?” Nicholas asked, his voice laced with concern, but still with that underlying hum of Father’s Day cheer. He picked me up and bounced me gently. “It’s been a big day, hasn’t it? Father’s Day is exhausting, even for the best babies.”
He carried me to the rocking chair, still wearing his ‘World’s Best Daddy’ t-shirt, and began to hum a lullaby. Despite myself, despite the matching outfits and the glitter glue and the sticky green handprint, a tiny, almost imperceptible feeling of… something akin to affection, began to stir within me.
He was ridiculous. He was naive. He was utterly, spectacularly over-the-top. But he was also… genuinely loving. His enthusiasm, while sometimes overwhelming, stemmed from a place of pure, unadulterated devotion. And in my six short months of observing human behaviour, I’d learned that genuine devotion, in any form, was a rare and precious commodity.
As Nicholas rocked me, his warm hand gently stroking my back, I finally succumbed to the exhaustion of the day. My fussy protestations subsided, replaced by the soft, rhythmic breathing of a truly, deeply tired baby. And in that moment, as I drifted off to sleep, I realized something. Father’s Day might be a bit much. Nicholas might be a bit much.
But maybe, just maybe, a little bit much wasn’t so bad after all. Especially when it came with this much… well, fatherly love. Though, next year, I’m definitely drawing the line at matching outfits. And sprinkles on pancakes. Definitely sprinkles on pancakes. Some lines, even for a baby on Father’s Day, should simply not be crossed.
*************************************
The gentle rocking ceased, and I felt myself lifted once more, this time higher, a dizzying ascent that momentarily disrupted the carefully constructed narrative of detached observation I’d been cultivating. Up, up, and then suddenly, the world shifted again, and I was horizontal, floating for a heartbeat before the blessedly soft mattress of my crib cushioned my descent.
“There we go,” Nicholas murmured, his voice lower now, the Father’s Day exuberance softened around the edges, mellowed like the fading afternoon sunlight. He leaned over me, his face a warm, blurry oval against the muted light of the room. “All tucked in. Nice and comfy for my little man.”
Little man. Honestly. If only he knew the intellectual storms brewing behind these wide, innocent eyes. If only he understood the complex algorithms I was running in my rapidly developing brain, processing everything from the socio-economic implications of glitter glue to the questionable fashion choices of baby clothing manufacturers. “Little man.” It was… reductive. Though, admittedly, at this juncture in my existence, physically, I was indeed rather little.
He was fussing now, pulling the soft, star-patterned blanket up to my chest, his movements slow and deliberate, like each tuck was a gesture of profound significance. He probably thought it was. Bless his naive heart.
“Such a good boy today,” he continued, his voice a hushed whisper now, more to himself than to me, I suspected. Though, of course, I was listening. Always listening. I was a sponge, soaking up every nuance, every inflection, every subtle shift in human behaviour. “Daddy’s best Father’s Day ever.”
I blinked slowly, maintaining the wide-eyed, slightly unfocused gaze that seemed to reassure him. Good boy. Best Father’s Day. The accolades were rolling in tonight. It was almost… embarrassing. Almost.
He straightened up, but didn’t move away. He just stood there, hovering over the crib, his shadow falling across me like a gentle, reassuring weight. The room was dim now, the bright, cheerful chaos of Father’s Day afternoon thankfully receding into memory. The last rays of sunlight were painting stripes across the wall, softening the edges of the brightly colored mobiles hanging above me. It was… peaceful. Relatively. If you ignored the lingering scent of pancake syrup and the faint, sticky residue of green handprint paint that I suspected I’d be finding in surprising places for weeks to come.
He still hadn’t moved. He was just watching me. It was… intense. Adults. They certainly had a flair for the dramatic, didn’t they? All this quiet contemplation. All this weighty emotion hanging in the air. For a moment, I considered releasing a well-timed burp just to break the tension. But something, some nascent instinct, some tiny, fluttering… feeling, held me back.
“You know, Luke,” he finally said, his voice still soft, almost reverent. “Father’s Day… it’s really something special, huh?”
Oh, here we go. The post-Father’s Day paternal pronouncements. I braced myself for a lengthy monologue. Though, to be fair, monologues were pretty much the standard form of adult communication when it came to babies. It was mostly one-way traffic around here.
“It’s not just about the presents, or the cards, or the… well, the matching outfits,” he chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated in the quiet room. I suppressed a sigh. Matching outfits. The memory still stung, though the fuzzy dinosaur onesie had, in its own way, been surprisingly comfortable. “Although, those outfits were pretty awesome, right?”
I remained impassive, my baby face a mask of serene, unknowing innocence. Let him think what he wanted. Internally, I was drafting a strongly worded memo to my future self: 'At no point, under any circumstances, including blackmail, bribery, or the threat of tickle torture, are you to agree to matching outfits after the age of… well, six months, realistically. Six months is pushing it.'
He was still talking, thankfully moving on from the sartorial atrocities of the day. “It’s… it’s about remembering. Remembering when I became your Dad. Remembering when you came into my life and… well, just changed everything.”
Changed everything. That was certainly an understatement. I’d turned his meticulously organised, colour-coded existence into a whirlwind of sleep deprivation, projectile bodily fluids, and the constant, low-level hum of anxiety that seemed to emanate from him whenever I was out of his direct line of sight. Changed everything indeed.
He leaned closer again, his brown eyes, so like my own, filled with a soft, unwavering light. “Before you,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion, “Father’s Day was… just another Sunday. Maybe I’d call my own dad, send a card, you know. Nice enough. But… but now…”
He paused, searching for words, his gaze fixed on my face as if I held the answers to the universe within my chubby cheeks. “Now it’s… it’s like the sun’s come out. Every year, it’s like the sun’s come out just for me. Because it’s a day to celebrate… you. And being your dad.”
The sun. Dramatic imagery, as always. But… there was something in his voice, something raw and genuine that resonated even with my cynical, highly analytical baby brain. He wasn’t just reciting Hallmark sentiments. He actually meant it.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Luke,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “Honestly. I never knew I could love anyone this much. It’s… it’s a bit crazy, isn’t it? This… this dad thing?”
Crazy? Yes, undeniably. But… crazy in a… good way? Possibly. The evidence was mounting. He was consistently there. He was relentlessly cheerful (sometimes to the point of near-hysteria). And he poured an almost alarming amount of affection in my general direction. It was… a lot to process.
“Sometimes I just look at you,” he went on, still gazing at me with that unwavering, intense love, “and I can’t believe you’re real. You’re… you’re perfect. Perfectly fussy, perfectly messy, perfectly demanding… and perfectly, perfectly amazing.”
Perfectly fussy? Well, he wasn’t wrong there. I did have standards, after all. And sometimes, those standards were not met by the lukewarm milk, the scratchy fabrics, or the general lack of intellectual stimulation that seemed to be the hallmarks of baby life. But perfectly amazing? That was… generous. Perhaps even slightly hyperbolic. Though, not entirely unwelcome hyperbole, I had to admit.
He reached out then, his hand gentle as a butterfly landing on my cheek. His fingers were warm, his touch light, and surprisingly… comforting. “I promise you, Luke,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, “I’m going to be the best dad I can be. I’m going to try my hardest, every single day, to make you happy, to keep you safe, to… to just be there for you. Always.”
Always. A big word. Especially in the context of human relationships, which, from my limited observation, seemed to be notoriously fickle and unpredictable. But… looking into his earnest, loving eyes, I actually believed him. This naive, over-the-top, slightly ridiculous man… he meant it. He genuinely intended to be there, always.
He stroked my cheek again, his thumb tracing the soft curve of my jawline. “Happy Father’s Day, my little man,” he whispered, his voice full of tenderness. “Thank you for making me a dad.”
And then, he did something unexpected. He leaned down, his face close to mine, and he kissed my forehead. A soft, gentle kiss that lingered for a moment, warm and… unexpectedly sweet.
And in that moment, something within me shifted. The carefully constructed walls of cynicism, the detached observer persona, seemed to waver, to soften just a fraction. The tiny spark of affection that had flickered earlier, that almost imperceptible warmth, began to grow, to expand, to glow a little brighter in the dim quiet of the room.
He straightened up, his gaze still lingering on me. He looked tired, but content. Bathed in the soft light, with the lingering scent of Father’s Day happiness still in the air, he looked… well, he looked like a good dad. A genuinely good dad.
“Sweet dreams, Luke,” he murmured, and finally, he moved away, stepping back from the crib, his shadow receding. He moved towards the door, pausing in the doorway to look back at me one last time, a soft, contented smile on his face.
Then, he was gone, and I was alone in the quiet darkness of my crib. The star-patterned mobile spun slowly above me, casting dancing shadows on the ceiling. The house settled into the hushed tranquility of night.
I was tired. Exhausted, in fact. Father’s Day was, as he had said, exhausting. But… as I drifted towards sleep, something felt different. The lingering taste of pancake syrup wasn’t quite so offensive. The memory of the green handprint wasn’t entirely horrific. And the sound of “World’s Best Daddy” echoing in my ears… well, it didn’t grate quite so much anymore.
Maybe, just maybe, he was right. Maybe being a dad was a bit crazy. Maybe Father’s Day was a bit much. And maybe Nicholas was, undeniably, a bit much. But… in the quiet darkness, tucked safely in my crib, wrapped in the warmth of his love, I realized… maybe “a bit much” wasn’t so bad after all. In fact, maybe, just maybe, a little bit much… was exactly what I needed. Especially when it came with this much… well, fatherly love.
Though, next year, I was still drawing the line at sprinkles. And potentially the matching outfits. Definitely still thinking about the outfits. But… for tonight, in this quiet, peaceful darkness… it was okay to just be… loved. And maybe, just maybe… to love him back, just a little bit, too. Just a tiny, almost imperceptible bit. For now.