Harrington Household request: when the kids finally ask where the babies come from
Summary: You and Steve navigate how to tell your girl where babies come from.
WC: 2.7k
Warnings & What to Expect: hargrove!fem!reader (doesn't matter too much to the plot), talks about babies, kids being curious, rude baseball moms, reader & Steve wish their kids weren't growing up so fast - this takes place in the harrington household au but can be read as a stand alone!
Harrington Household Masterlist
currently writing this series based on requests, so if you’ve got any ideas - please feel free to send them my way 🫶🏻
Main Masterlist If Interested!
Peach’s Note: what a fun request anon!! i enjoyed writing this a lot, so hoping you enjoy lovie 💚
tysm to everyone showing love on my works - it means the world. requests are open! feel free to send anything Steve or Gator Tillman related and I can certainly try my best 🫡
this one makes me feel sooo nostalgic 😓⤵️
“Daddy?” Your ten year old asks from across the kitchen island.
“Yeah, babe?” Steve replies, eyes flicking over to her.
You’re standing at the stove, finishing up breakfast. Steve’s sitting at the kitchen island next to his girl, coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other. He offered to help you this morning, as he always does, but you knew he had a long day ahead of him with double header games scheduled for this evening.
You somehow convinced him to just sit still for once - probably coaxed by the lingering kisses you had planted lovingly at the base of his neck, ordering him to let you take care of him.
The rest of your babes are scattered, as the morning shift is always chaotic. Your eldest two are finishing up last minute assignments at the dining table. Your toddler woke up sick, and fell promptly back to sleep after you doused her with some medicine. Your ten year old and four your old boys are curled up on the couch together, watching reruns of cartoons.
“Where do babies come from?” The question comes out of nowhere, and thoroughly catches Steve off guard.
He chokes on his coffee, inhaling it the wrong way. You turn at the intensity of his coughing - sounding like he’s hacking a lung out as he wheezes into his elbow.
You shut off the burner, rounding the island to pat gently at his back - rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades.
Your girl looks at the two of you curiously, bright eyes staring inquisitively. She’s the only one who borders on having full on green eyes in the family, the hazel color from her daddy shining through.
“Yeah, Dad. You’re kind of an expert on that topic aren’t you?” Your eldest girl calls out from the dining room.
Steve sends her a withering look, and your oldest boy starts laughing under his breath.
It’s a right of passage as a Harrington kid - getting to middle school and realizing your father is not only the P.E. coach, but also the sex education teacher for the seventh and eighth graders.
Steve’s not shy about it - he can’t be with six children himself, but he also doesn’t want to make it weird for them. You’ve only had to do it twice now, but with each kid, before they entered middle school - you sat them down to have a talk about puberty and what dad’s job is really about.
But the two of you hadn’t planned on having that conversation with your twins just yet - still having two years of elementary school to go.
You answer for Steve, “What makes you want to know, Sweetheart?”
“Well, I know all of us were in Mommy’s belly, but Melody said that they have to get in there somehow,” she replies, confusion making her eyebrows furrow.
“And did Melody tell you how?” Steve clears his throat, praying that she didn’t learn about conception from another fourth grader.
She shrugs her shoulders, “No, but now I want to know about it.”
You and Steve make eye contact, knowing she’s not going to let it go. Steve drags a hand over his face, sighing heavily. You glance at the clock and realize time is ticking before everyone needs to be shuttled out the door.
“We can talk about it later, baby. Right now we need to get a move on before school starts,” you tell her softly, not wanting to shut her down, but knowing that’s not a topic to dive into right now.
“Okay,” she chirps, unphased that she can’t get an answer yet. She hops off the stool, grabbing her plate and joining the others at the dining table.
Steve releases a breath filled with relief, head falling to the crook of your neck.
“I thought we had more time with the twins,” he whines.
You run your hand through his hair, pushing back the strands that are falling in front of his forehead. He leans into the touch, pressing closer to you.
“We do,” you assure, “we can be honest while still being mindful of her age.”
“She’s going to keep asking," Steve warns, knowing his girl like the back of his hand.
“And we’ll tell her what we can,” you tilt his jaw up, capturing your lips with his.
You hear wailing from upstairs, a sign that your sick one has woken back up - forcing you to pull away with a groan, ready to go try to get her to settle down again.
Steve slides out from his spot and pats the empty chair, “Sit. I’ll go check on her.”
“But, you’ve got work in-,” you argue, and he cuts you off with another kiss to your lips.
His nose nudges yours when he breaks away, “Sit. I’ve got it, baby.”
Steve trods up the stairs, and moments later, he’s walking back down them with his girl cuddled up in his arms. He’s whispering sweet words of comfort in her ear, hand trailing up and down her back. You watch as her little fingers grip onto him tightly, tears from being uncomfortable rolling down her cheeks - Steve’s softly brushing them away.
It makes your heart swell, causes you to glance over at your youngest boy - still wrapped up in a blanket on the couch, and a beat of gratitude washes over you that not all of your kids are growing up too fast.
You’re sitting in the stands, cheering on Steve’s baseball team. Your eldest daughter willingly stayed home to look after your youngest, who was still nursing a slight fever. Your oldest was next to Steve in the dugout - he’s become quite the assistant coach, wanting to get in some volunteer hours to look good on college applications.
Your twins sit on either side of you, happily munching on popcorn - hands sticky and lips stained blue from the slushies they had earlier. Your youngest boy is playing in the dirt at the front of the stands, another mom watching him for you as he’s with some of the other siblings.
“Mom?” Your girl asks, wiping the buttery residue on her fingers off on her jeans.
“Hmm?” You hum out, not really paying attention because you’re distracted by Steve - who’s come out to give a pep talk to the team, squatting a bit to meet their level. Your eyes can’t help but travel the curve of his ass, the khaki colored athletic pants leaving little to the imagination.
“Can you tell me where babies come from now?” She asks, loud enough for the mothers on the bleachers behind you to hear. You immediately hear snickering, and your cheeks flush just a bit.
You rip your eyes away from Steve to look at her, nearly having forgotten her question from this morning.
“Not yet, babe. Daddy and I are gonna tell you about it together, yeah?” You remind her.
“Is it a secret?” She asks, a little suspicious now that you’ve dodged the question twice.
“No! It’s just,” you swallow, feeling nervous at the eyes of the parents staring holes into your head - dialed in to what you’re about to say, “it’s private. You remember we talked about the difference between something being a secret and something being private, right?”
She nods, remembering how you had to have that talk; that some things should not be shared outside of the family, because one time, her twin spent the night in the bathroom - full blown stomach bug raging against his system - and he was absolutely mortified when she told their classmates the next day.
“There’s certain things that we only talk about with the people we trust in our family,” she affirms, and you’re thankful she’s understanding.
“Exactly, and it’s okay to wonder about this. It’s normal, but it can also be a private topic,” you try your best to let her know without making her feel ashamed for asking.
“I think I get it. We’ll talk about it when we’re home?” She implores, and you reach over to pull the hairs that are sticking to her face from the wind.
“When we’re home,” you confirm, patting her knee.
It’s then that she sees her friend Melody from school, begs you to allow her to go say hi. You do, and turn to your son who’s busy playing with his Game Boy now - no interest in the topic that his sister just brought up.
You feel a shift behind you, one of the moms who’s eavesdropped on the whole thing. She leans forward, and gives you a look of pity. You clench your teeth - knowing what’s coming.
Hawkins baseball moms are ruthless, and you haven't made many friends with them because of it. They’re either all too forward about the fact that they think Steve is attractive, or too busy turning their noses up at the fact that you have six children.
“Lord, I remember when my Tanner kept asking me about that. Put it off as long as I could. You and Coach Steve must be quite lax to tell her at such a young age,” her tone is sweet, but you can hear the underbite of judgment.
“We don’t believe in lying to our kids,” you say, pressing your lips tightly together.
“Oh, of course not darlin’! Must be easy for the two of you anyway,” she quips back.
You take the bait - knowing nothing good is going to come out of her mouth - and still ask, “What do you mean?”
“Well, with all those little Harrington’s running around, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of practice telling them,” she snarks, still with a fake smile on her face.
You know it’s a dig at the amount of children you have - you’re used to it, used to people looking at you like you’ve grown two heads when you tell them. It shouldn’t hurt you anymore, but it does. It makes you angry that people don’t know how to keep their mouths shut; because really, people can judge you all they want - it’s your kids who you worry about hearing the wrong thing.
You force yourself to bite your tongue, ignoring her comment, and turn your attention back to the game at hand. Your eyes sting, feeling the build up of frustrated tears, and cross your arms to hold it together.
You feel a small arm wrap around your bicep - it’s your boy, who puts the game controller down and leans into you.
“I like that there’s a lot of us Harringtons,” he tells you quietly.
You can tell he doesn’t fully understand what just happened, but knows that the words that were spoken rubbed you the wrong way - can feel your sadness over it.
“Yeah, I like that there’s a lot of us too,” you reply, giving him a squeeze - can’t help but make your voice loud enough so that the rude mother behind you can hear it.
When the games are over, you finally work up the nerve to take a peek at the lady, rewarded with a sheepish look on her face at realizing your son heard her.
You’ll have to teach your babes someday soon that people are always going to have opinions on your family, but it’s their own that matters the most - for now, you need to go home and prepare yourself for how to tell your daughter where babies come from.
You and Steve peer around the corner into the kitchen, where your girl sits patiently at the island. You told her to wait there once she completed her bedtime routine - that the two of you would talk to her then.
“I was kinda hoping she wouldn’t be there,” Steve whispers to you, and you smack his shoulder lightly.
“Get over it. You’re taking the lead here, expert,” you tease.
“Real mature,” Steve’s hand reaches out to pinch at your waist playfully, and you yelp at the unexpected touch.
It alerts your girl, who turns to the two of you - she’s looking much more dejected than she did this morning.
“What’s wrong, baby?” You ask her, walking into the room to stand beside her.
“Am I in trouble?” She asks, lower lip jutting out in worry.
“What? Why would you think that, Sweetheart? Steve asks her, sidling up to the island. He leans on it with his elbows across from the two of you.
“I saw Melody at the baseball game. She said her parents were upset when she asked them where babies come from,” she says nervously.
“We aren’t Melody's parents. We’re yours - and we’re never going to get upset with you for having questions,” Steve assures her, making her perk up.
She looks over to you for extra certainty, and you nod - taking a seat next to her. She shyly moves closer, and you know she wants to sit in your lap. She really is getting too big for it, but you pull her to you anyway, letting her legs dangle off your thighs, and she props her torso against the island. You wrap your arms around her, and communicate with your eyes that Steve should start.
“First of all, I want you to know that every family is different. There’s a lot of types of parents and how they get their babies,” Steve tells her.
“Like Auntie Robin? She adopted her baby!” Your girl says proudly for remembering the concept.
“Yeah, just like Auntie Robin,” you validate her.
“But, uh, Mom and I are going to tell you how we got all of you,” Steve scratches at his ear, a sign that he’s slightly anxious about the topic. It comes easy telling it to a bunch of random middle schoolers, but more important when it comes to the tiny people he’s trying to raise right.
“Part of you comes from Mom, and the other part of you comes from me. And those two parts came together,” Steve intertwines his hands for a visual, pursing his lips and it makes you bite your lip in amusement. Your girl nods seriously, tracking along.
“When those parts came together, they created you and your siblings,” Steve finishes.
“But, how do those parts come together?” She inquires.
“Well, there’s a part of me that connects with Mom, and then there’s this, uh, process. And the process is what creates the baby,” Steve tries to explain.
“And then I grew in Mom’s belly after that?” She looks over to you.
“That’s right, baby,” you agree.
She ponders for a moment, letting the words sink in and promptly says, “Okay.”
“Okay?” Steve asks, a little bewildered that she accepted that vague description without further details.
You see the little gears in her brain turning and can tell she doesn’t fully comprehend.
“There’s a bit more to it than that, hun. But I think your father and I would like to tell you when you’re just a smidge bit older,” you hug her when she leans back in your arms.
“And you have to be in love, right? Melody told me her mom said you have to be in love to have a baby,” she says eagerly.
Steve refuses to be dishonest, “Actually, babe, you don’t have to be in love to have a baby. But, your mom and I do love each other very much.”
“Is that why you did it six times?” She asks the question so innocently, it startles a genuine laugh out of you.
“Yeah, Dad and I love each other so much that we wanted to create six of you,” you say, throwing a grin at your husband.
Your girl gives a yawn, and it's a sign that the conversation is coming to an end. You whisper bedtime to her, and let her know that you’ll be up in a couple minutes to tuck her in.
She’s about half way up the stairs when Steve calls out, “Hey, Sweetheart?”
“Yeah, Daddy?” She pauses, turning around.
“If your friends at school bring it up, or you hear things from other people, we want you to come and ask us. Please don’t ever be afraid to ask,” Steve promises.
“Got it,” she smiles at him, running the rest of the way to her bedroom.
You watch her go before turning to Steve, “God, I love watching them grow, but I miss when they were actual babies.”
“We could always have another,” he replies coyly.
“Steve,” you laugh pointedly.
“Would you at least be down for practicing making another one?” He raises his eyebrows cheekily.
You smirk, leaning forward to cup his jaw, “Well, practicing is the best part.”
Divider credits to @/saradika-graphics
