🍎 First Day Feelings: A Norris Household Tale
Dad!Lando x Mom!reader
Summary: On Kenya and Arlo’s first day of big school, the house feels unusually quiet — and little Rylan feels it most of all. As Y/n tries to keep his spirits up at home, he quickly spirals into missing his siblings, breaking down in a teary, hiccup-filled meltdown on the living room floor. When Lando returns home alone, Rylan’s heartbreak deepens, convinced his beloved big brother and sister would be right behind him.
It's September 2023, and somehow — despite time moving at the same speed as always — our house feels like it's aged ten years overnight.
This morning is the morning: Kenya and Arlo's first official day of big-kid school.
I'm standing in the kitchen at 6:30 a.m., my oversized sweatshirt covered in mysterious oatmeal smears, hair shoved into a bun so messy it should have its own insurance policy. I'm trying — and failing — not to cry while packing tiny sandwiches and apple slices into their new lunchboxes.
Kenya's lunchbox is purple with glitter unicorn stickers. Arlo's is covered in dinosaurs and lightning bolts, because "lightning is fast, like Daddy," he explained very seriously last week.
Kenya is practically vibrating with excitement in the living room, already wearing her sparkly light-up sneakers and twirling around, announcing to no one in particular: "I'm going to learn everything, and then I'll teach Rylan when I get home!"
Arlo sits on the couch, swinging his feet, eyeing his backpack like it might bite him. "Mummy, what if they don't let me bring Sharky to class? What if my teacher thinks he's too scary?" Sharky, his beloved plush shark, is clutched to his chest like a life vest on the Titanic.
I kneel down to him and smooth his hair, my heart simultaneously melting and breaking into a million little mum-shaped pieces. "Sweetie, Sharky can stay in your backpack if you want. He'll be your secret sidekick."
He squints at me. "Like a spy?"
"Exactly."
Meanwhile, Rylan, at two and three-quarters, is losing his entire mind in the hallway.
He's wearing his dinosaur pajamas and stomping around with his tiny backpack (completely empty except for two raisins and a rock he insists is magical). He stops in front of me with his fists clenched and yells: "I GO TOO!"
I scoop him up, and he kicks indignantly while I try to explain for the thousandth time that he isn't going to big school yet.
His face scrunches into a tragic pout. "BUT I'M BIG TOO! I EAT BROCCOLI!"
Lando finally steps in, looking far too good for this hour, hair perfectly fluffy and that warm, calm dad energy radiating off him like sunshine. He kneels beside Kenya and Arlo, slipping something into each of their backpacks with a conspiratorial smile.
"What are you up to?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.
He grins, catching my eye with that same sparkle that made me fall for him when we were just kids ourselves. "Just a little something to remind them who they are."
Later, I find them: folded notes in each backpack. In Lando's messy, earnest handwriting:
Be kind. Be brave. You're a Norris.
I have to turn away and pretend to rummage for juice boxes so no one sees me tearing up again.
Finally, it's time to go. Kenya sprints to the door like she's heading to a concert, shouting, "BYE, EVERYONE! I'LL BRING HOME STORIES!" Arlo follows, clinging to Sharky, looking back at me every few seconds like he's checking to make sure this isn't a prank.
Lando gives them both a big squeeze, whispering something that makes them giggle. I crouch down for one last hug, inhaling their sweet shampoo-and-crayon scent, and give each a forehead kiss.
Rylan and I stand in the doorway together as Lando ushers the twins outside. Kenya waves dramatically from the steps. Arlo gives us a shy thumbs-up.
Then they're gone.
There's a moment of silence. Rylan's little hand squeezes mine tightly.
He looks up at me with his wide, teary eyes and whispers in the softest, most heartbreaking voice I've ever heard:
"I miss them already. Can I eat their snacks?"
I burst out laughing — the kind that bubbles up from deep inside and makes tears spill anyway. I scoop him up into a big cuddle, feeling his warm little head tuck under my chin.
"Nice try, Captain Snack," I say, wiping my eyes. "But those are for after school."
He sighs dramatically against my shoulder, resigned to his fate, and mumbles, "Okay... but I still miss them."
I press a kiss to his cheek and carry him into the kitchen, knowing that somehow, even in the quietest, hardest moments, this loud, messy, unstoppable love is exactly what makes it all worth it.
At first, he kept it together. He sat at the table, drawing what he called "racing maps" on printer paper. I tried to distract him with apple slices shaped like stars (Kenya's invention) and a half-hearted dance party to Bluey songs.
But halfway through the second song, I noticed him staring blankly at the wall, crayon dangling from his little fingers.
"Ry? You okay, baby?" I asked gently, coming over to rub his back.
He shrugged, big brown eyes shining but stubbornly refusing to look at me.
Then it started. The quietest, saddest little sniffle. The kind that sounds like a kitten stuck in the rain.
I crouched down so we were eye level, and his lip wobbled.
"Where's 'Nya and Awo?" he finally croaked.
My heart cracked in half on the kitchen floor.
"They're at school, love. They'll be home later this afternoon," I said softly, brushing his hair away from his forehead.
He shook his head, a tear sliding down his cheek. "But I want them NOW."
Before I could scoop him up, he slid off his chair and ran to the living room, throwing himself face-down on the rug. From there, he unleashed the kind of full-body sob that you can feel echo through your bones — little fists pounding the carpet, muffled wails between gasps for air.
I sat beside him, rubbing his back in slow, steady circles, whispering, "It's okay... I know... you miss them so much."
After a while, his cries turned into hiccupy breaths. He curled up, cheeks pink and puffy, clutching my sleeve like a lifeline.
I carried him over to the couch, where he melted into me like a sleepy koala. We sat there for what felt like forever, his tiny hands playing absently with my hair, his breathing slow and heavy against my chest.
At some point, he dozed off — eyelashes still wet, mouth slightly open. I stayed still, cradling him, feeling that bittersweet ache that only a mother knows: the joy of closeness and the pain of their tiny heartbreaks.
Around mid-afternoon, I heard the keys at the door.
Lando stepped inside, a big grin on his face, hair a little messy from the wind, cheeks pink from the chill outside.
Before Lando could say a word, Rylan's head shot up from my chest. His entire body went rigid — then he exploded off the couch like a firework.
"DADDY!!"
He ran straight for Lando, arms wide, face glowing with pure, innocent hope.
"Where's 'Nya?! Where's Awo?!"
He skidded to a halt at Lando's feet, bouncing on his toes, scanning behind him for his siblings.
Lando's smile faltered. He bent down slowly, opening his arms.
"Hey, mate... they're not with me. They're still at school. But they'll be home really soon."
Rylan's shoulders sagged instantly, like someone let all the air out of him. His lip quivered again as Lando pulled him into a hug.
He pressed his face into Lando's shoulder and mumbled, "I thought you bringed them. I miss them too much."
Lando closed his eyes, resting his chin on Rylan's head, and sighed, "I know, buddy. I know. I miss them too."
I stood in the doorway, hands over my heart, feeling both shattered and proud.
A moment later, Lando carried Rylan over to me, and we sat together on the couch, Rylan wedged firmly between us like the final puzzle piece.
We talked in quiet voices, promising that Kenya and Arlo would have so many stories to share when they came home.
Rylan eventually settled, his fingers tracing the lines on Lando's sleeve, his head heavy on my shoulder.
And when I thought he might drift off again, he whispered, almost conspiratorially, "Next time, I go too. I be the line leader."
We both laughed softly — that exhausted, relieved, deeply in-love laugh only parents know.
Then we waited. As a team. As a pack. Until those familiar footsteps would come charging up the path again, ready to fill the house back up with noise, stories, and chaos.
I kept him close all day, trying to fill the big sibling-shaped hole with extra cuddles, storybooks, and the occasional slice of banana bread he insisted was "too sad to eat alone."
When the clock finally edged toward pickup time, I glanced at Rylan, sprawled on the couch in his dinosaur pajama pants, hugging a cushion like it was a long-lost friend.
I sat down beside him, brushing his curls back from his forehead.
"Hey, Ry," I said softly. He peeked up at me with those big, still-slightly-puffy eyes. "Do you want to come with me and Daddy to pick up Kenya and Arlo from school?"
His whole face lit up like someone had flipped a switch.
"YES! Yesyesyesyes! We go get 'Nya and Awo!"
He practically launched off the couch, legs flailing in all directions, nearly taking out the coffee table.
Lando poked his head in from the kitchen, half a sandwich in his hand. "We leaving now?"
I nodded, smiling. "We've got a very eager assistant."
Rylan was already sprinting down the hallway, yelling, "I need SHOES! I NEED MY GOING-OUT SHOES!" He returned moments later with one sneaker, one rain boot, and a winter mitten.
Close enough.
After an intense two-minute wrestle involving three outfit changes (Rylan insisted he needed his "fast pants"), we finally corralled him into the car seat.
Lando slid into the driver's seat, and I buckled myself in the passenger. Rylan kept bouncing, humming to himself, alternating between "Wheels on the Bus" and the McLaren team radio jingle.
As we pulled out of the driveway, he leaned forward and grabbed my arm urgently.
"Mummy... when we see them... can I run first? I wanna do the biggest hug."
I felt that sweet ache in my chest again, the one that feels like your heart is physically swelling inside your ribs.
"Of course, love," I said, kissing the top of his head. "You get first dibs."
The drive felt longer than usual, the minutes stretching like melted caramel. I kept sneaking glances at Lando, who kept giving me these soft, knowing smiles — the kind that say, We might be tired, but look at what we made. Look at these wild, wonderful little humans.
Finally, we pulled up to the school. It was that chaotic time of day: parents milling around with coffees, teachers herding excited kids like tiny, brightly colored sheep, backpacks bouncing everywhere.
We unbuckled Rylan, who immediately shot out of the car like a mini rocket. He stood on tiptoes, scanning the sea of small heads, gripping my hand so tight it almost hurt.
Then — we saw them.
Kenya was strutting down the path, hair slightly frizzy from all her day's adventures, her unicorn backpack nearly falling off one shoulder. She waved dramatically when she spotted us.
Arlo was trailing behind, clutching Sharky to his chest, looking a little sleepy and a lot happy.
Rylan shrieked, "THERE!!" and bolted.
I almost lost my balance as he tugged free and ran full-speed toward them, arms wide open, cheeks flushed with pure joy.
Kenya saw him coming and let out a delighted squeal. "RYLAN!!"
Arlo's whole face lit up, and he actually dropped Sharky so he could run faster.
They collided in a tangle of limbs and backpacks. Rylan latched onto both of them at once, chanting over and over, "I missed you! I missed you! I missed you so much!"
Kenya giggled, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Arlo gave him an earnest squeeze and said solemnly, "I missed you too, Ry. Sharky missed you also."
I felt Lando step up behind me, sliding his arm around my waist. We stood there, watching this perfect mess unfold, both of us grinning so wide it almost hurt.
When we finally joined the little dogpile, Kenya was bubbling with stories about her new teacher and how she "accidentally" told someone her dad drives a race car and makes the best pancakes. Arlo explained in detail how he drew a shark in art class but then panicked because he didn't know if sharks had eyebrows.
Rylan, meanwhile, kept touching their arms and hair, as if making sure they were really real and really home.
We eventually shuffled them toward the car, backpacks bouncing, chatter rising into the cool afternoon air.
Lando squeezed my hand and whispered, "You know... they really are the best team."
I looked at him — my best friend, my partner, my co-pilot in this wild life — and nodded.
"They are," I said, smiling as Rylan insisted on climbing into the car last so he could "watch his best friends go first."
And in that chaotic, noisy, sticky, perfect moment, I felt it so deeply I almost burst:
We might have started this morning with tears and tantrums, but we ended with love so big it could swallow the whole sky.