Parenting never comes easy to anyone. This includes four mutant turtles who have to deal with the trials and tribulations of their children growing up.
content: 2012!turtles // hurt & comfort // implied biological children but no mention of pregnancy
“Leo, you’re going to have to let go of her now.”
“It’s okay, she barely weighs anything.”
“I’m not worried about you, I’m worried about her.” You chide, crossing your arms in an attempt to be firm. However, much like how Leo is weak to the little girl in his arms, you’re weak to him, too. “If you pick her up every time she asks, she wouldn’t want to move around at all. Just yesterday, she refused to walk from her room to the kitchen.”
“She’s fine.” Leo dismisses, though the twinge of guilt in his expression betrays him—he knows you’re making a valid point. He adjusts his grip on the toddler who has dozed off against his shoulder, keeping a steady hand on her back. You narrow your eyes at him in warning, and he holds out for a sparing few seconds before relenting, slumping in defeat.
“Okay, when she wakes up, I’ll let her walk the rest of the way.” Leo sighs. You relax at his admission, satisfied as you lean up to affectionately peck his cheek.
“Thank you for your noble sacrifice.” You tease, looping your arm around him. “What’s up with you lately? You seem upset.”
Leo’s gaze averts to the concrete path behind him, lips pressed tightly together. Over the years you two have been together, you can recognise when he’s deep in thought.
“... She’s a little heavier now.”
This gives you pause, your brows furrowing as you tilt your head lightly in confusion.
“I thought you said she barely weighs anything?”
“She doesn’t,” Leo hastily agrees, his eyes darting between you and his daughter. “But still, she’s getting bigger.”
You almost remark with “Well, children tend to do that” until you catch the faraway gleam in his eyes. Suddenly, it dawns on you what this is about, a sharp prick stabbing in your heart when you glance at your child’s innocent, slumbering face. You remember her being so tiny when she was born, attributed to her turtle genes. Yet, within the blink of an eye, she can now heave herself up the steps of the dojo to reach her dad. With a pit in your stomach, you think of the day you and Leo will set her down, and not pick her up again.
“... I want to carry her when we’re heading back.” You quietly add, snuggling closer to Leo’s side. He responds by gently knocking his head against yours, not saying a word.
Despite all the anxieties Raph had about being a father, there is one thing he took pride in—his ability to bond with his daughter over anything. She wanted to have princess-themed tea parties? Raph felt no shame in rocking a frilly skirt and tiara. She wanted to play with monster trucks and action figures? Raph will set up an elaborate cityscape with building blocks just for her to terrorise it as Godzilla. With his sprawling list of interests, spending time with his daughter would never be an issue.
He was proven wrong one faithful Valentine's Day when he found her in her room scribbling on a pink-coloured card. When he crouched down to ask who it was for, you think he went a shade pale in green.
“Who is Blake?” He questions through gritted teeth as he pulls you aside, out of your daughter’s hearing range, as she continues to doodle on her piece of paper.
“Raph, you’ve met him.” You scold lightly, frowning. “He’s one of the kids the Mutanimals recently took in. The little mutant bear cub?”
Recognition flickers in his eyes as he finally remembers who you’re talking about, but immediately his features contort into something severe, and you can already wager a guess what he’s about to say.
“Not a word. He’s a sweet kid,” You chide, slapping a hand over his mouth. “I think it’s a good thing she’s making friends, and her crush on him is adorable.”
Raph looks as if he wants to argue, but deflates, knowing you’re right. Even though sentiments toward mutants have improved over the years, your daughter is still deprived of the typical social interactions that children her age should have. You know he’d put her happiness over anything, even if it meant braving through this unfamiliar and uncomfortable territory.
“Dad, dad!” She raises her head as she lies on her belly, looking at him inquisitively. “Can you help me draw? You make it prettier.”
“Don’t worry, she still needs her dad around.” You coo teasingly, nudging him towards her. He shoots you a wry glance, though the corner of his lips is quirked up as he strides over to his little girl.
“So what do you want on here?” He asks, sitting cross-legged beside her. He listens carefully as she starts giving directions on her artistic vision. You smile fondly at the scene, at least up until the moment you hear Raph instruct her on how to bite boys if they are mean to her.
You had worried that there would be a very real risk of Donnie being a permissive parent when your child was born. Your fear wasn’t completely unfounded—in the early years of getting to know him, he’d bend over backwards to appease your whims, despite your initial discomfort. After a lot of time and progress, he eventually learned how to treat you as an equal rather than put you on a pedestal, being both a loving partner while playfully bantering with you.
So, when your baby arrived in the world, you were overwhelmed with nerves about having to play the role of the kill-joy parent while Donnie did whatever he could to stay on their good side.
You were proven wrong in the worst way possible—because your child is the kind of kid who needed at least two buzzkill parents. Apparently, not only did they inherit Donnie’s starry-eyed curiosity, but much like a younger Donnie, they didn’t quite understand where their limits ended.
You had been in the middle of breakfast when you heard an ear-rupturing boom sound from outside. You jump to your feet instantly while Donnie nearly tips over his cup of coffee, racing to the source of the sound. The shed—which also happens to be your child’s makeshift lab—comes into view, but before Donnie can force it open, the door swings ajar as your kid staggers out, coughing into a closed fist.
“Too much black powder.” They wheeze, waving their hand over their face, their face caked with soot.
“Are you okay?” Donnie frets, yanking them closer to him as he inspects them for any visible injuries, while your eyes dart between the smoky shed and your child. When Donnie manages to confirm that they are fine, his expression twists from wide-eyed worry to frustration. “What did I tell you about messing around without supervision?!”
“But I’m totally fine!” They argue back, frowning. “See, the shed is still standing.”
“You could have caused a huge explosion!” Donnie reprimands, pointing from the shed to you. “Not only could you have been seriously hurt, but so could the rest of your family!”
Their face crumbles at the reminder, appearing remorseful as their round brown eyes flicker to you. Your heart clenches at the sight, but you force yourself to remain straight-faced.
“Sorry…” They mumble, and much like you, Donnie’s tense expression eases at their evident regret. Yet, this is not his first rodeo, and likely won’t be his last as he sighs heavily, pinching the space between his eyes.
“Grounded for a week, and you’re cleaning up the shed.” He mutters. Their lips press into a firm line, but otherwise they don’t argue, walking back inside the house with a little more force in their steps than usual. As the door shuts behind them, Donnie slumps in on himself.
“I almost gave in.” He admits quietly to you as you reach over to rub his shoulder comfortingly.
“I know, me too. They’re getting a little too good at the puppy-dog eyes.” You agree. “I think we’ll have to cut Mikey’s babysitting hours next month.”
When he hears your voice flood from the speaker of his phone, he audibly gulps. He stifles a cough into his closed fist, fixing himself upright before he responds.
“Hey, doll.” He plasters on a nervous grin, despite knowing you can’t see him. “What’re you—”
“I know you picked our son up from school five hours early, Mikey!” You snap without greeting, your pitch high enough to cause the audio to crackle. “How come our fifteen-year-old is responsible enough to tell me but not you?”
Mikey knows his priority should be to descalate and calm you down. However, he can’t help but feel a wave of bitterness wash over him when you talk to him as if he were some sort of idiot. Quickly taking his phone off speaker, he glances in the direction of the restroom where his son had excused himself, just to make sure he isn’t around to hear this.
“We’re just grabbing food.” Mikey defends, and despite his hushed tone, he’s unable to hide the sharpness in his intonation. “Relax, okay? He never skips school.”
“Yes, Mikey, he doesn’t skip school because I’m the one responsible for making sure he gets there on time.” You seethe through gritted teeth, slamming your hand on the horn when a car is too slow to move at a green light. “I only asked you to start picking him up because I have to stay later at work, but only a week in and you’re pulling him out of class just for fun?”
His fingers drum against the slightly sticky table, his eyes flickering to the scenery outside. Something tugs at his heartstrings when he sees a young father and a son pass by, with the young boy animatedly chatting with his dad as he hops over the concrete lines in the pavement.
“... We’re getting old.” He abruptly states, his void of any irritation or mirth. The silence from your end is deafening. “My knees hurt when shredding rad moves on my board, I get sick going on super fast rollercoasters, and I can barely last two hours on rooftop runs. I’m too old to be his dad.”
There is an enduring pause, though when you speak, your voice wobbles.
“Mikey, we couldn’t have had him at a more perfect time.” You assert. “You and I wanted to figure out our lives before we settled for anything serious. If we had had him any earlier, we couldn’t have given him everything he needed. Plus, he isn’t the type of kid who likes going to skateparks or rollercoasters.”
“He should be. It’s like he popped out thirty years old.” Mikey lets out a wet chuckle, and he hears a quivering laugh from you as well. His voice drops as he hears a door creak open, realising his time with you is short before his son reaches the table. “Sorry, I know I screw up.”
“... Next weekend, let’s take a road trip somewhere far. We’ll rent an RV and everything. You can even go bungee jumping to convince us all you’ve still got it.” You suggest, and Mikey feels his chest lighten at the prospect.
“I love you.” He declares soulfully, bordering on dramatic, and he hears you giggle from the other line.
“Love you too. Enjoy your lunch.”
Mikey pockets his phone in time for his son to arrive, settling himself down in the seat opposite him. He quickly unearths a bottle of hand sanitiser from his backpack, grimacing as he applies a generous amount to the palms of his hands.
“The bathrooms are disgusting.” He explains, before Mikey can ask. He peers over the other tables, lips curling to a frown. “Wait, didn’t that family come after us? What kind of service is this? I’m going to go complain at the counter.”
Mikey has never leapt up from his seat to stop someone so fast before.
