#dad duties

with a pitiful sigh, he rolls out of bed like a man going to war. it’s 2:38 AM. he trudges into the nursery half-asleep, white hair a fluffy mess, dragging his feet like a cartoon ghost. you hear the creak of the door, then the silence that follows when your son is scooped up into his dad's arms. 

five minutes pass. then ten. 

you get up to check, only to find both of them passed out on the nursery floor. nagi’s legs are splayed across the alphabet rug, your baby boy fast asleep on his chest, one of nagi’s large hands resting protectively on the tiny back. he’s whispering nonsense, dream-talking again. 

“donuts… jelly-filled…” 

you stifle a laugh and grab your phone to take a picture. 

the next morning, you wake up to find the boys still asleep on the floor, powdered donut crumbs in your son’s hair, and nagi holding an empty snack wrapper like he’s claiming it in his will. 

“what happened?” you blink. 

he rubs his eyes groggily. “… he wanted one. couldn’t let him eat alone. that’s bad parenting.” 

“sei, he’s six months old. he doesn’t even have teeth yet.” 

“exactly. can’t even hold the donut. i had to help.” 

𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮 – “𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫”

you don’t know who’s more nervous, you or your daughter. 

her little legs swing under her chair backstage, ballet slippers tapping a restless rhythm as she keeps whispering “what if i mess up?” over and over like it’s a spell. 

“you won’t,” you tell her, squeezing her hand. “you’ve practiced so hard, sweetie. remember what papa said?” 

she looks up at you with wide eyes. “to bite the nerves and spit them out?” 

“okay well, maybe not that one. the other thing he said.” 

“to dance like i’m a jelly bean that came to life!” 

“that one.” 

bachira, your ever-eccentric husband, shows up fifteen minutes late with glitter on his face and a camera around his neck, already doing pirouettes in the lobby. “i made it! i got the confetti! and the snack bag! and also, uh oh, i think i glued my finger to the camera button–” 

your daughter lights up the second she sees him. 

“papa!!” 

“that’s my little jelly bean!” he cheers, crouching to hug her. “you ready to dance their eyeballs off?” 

“i think so…” 

“listen.” he cups her face with both hands. “if you fall, just pretend you did it on purpose. throw in a somersault. finish with jazz hands.” 

“like this?” she flails dramatically. 

“exactly like that.” 

and she does fall. five seconds into her solo, she trips. 

but your daughter remembers. she somersaults. she jazz-hands. the audience claps. and bachira? he’s crying and standing on his chair like she just won a world cup. 

“that’s my kid!!” he yells. “we’re getting ice cream after this!!” 

𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢 𝐲𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐢 – “𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐥𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐬”

“love,” you whisper, poking your head into the living room, “it’s your turn.” 

isagi looks up from his laptop with that same wide-eyed panic he gets when someone passes him the ball in reverse. “for what?” 

“bedtime.” 

you both go silent, listening to the ominous sound of giggles and things crashing upstairs. 

“… i already did bedtime yesterday,” he tries. 

“you brushed her teeth and then helped her do a backflip off the bed.” 

“which was… part of her routine.” 

you give him the look. 

with the dramatics of a man being asked to perform surgery with a spoon, isagi sets down his laptop, cracks his neck, and marches up the stairs like he's heading into battle. 

“alright, little monster,” he calls as he enters your daughter’s room, “bedtime means sleep. not turning into a jungle gym.” 

she’s hanging upside down from the headboard like a tiny spider. “but daddy, i’m not sleepy.” 

“you literally just did three cartwheels and then sang the national anthem for no reason.” 

“i needed to warm up.” 

“for what?” 

she grins. “bedtime olympics.” 

you watch from the doorway as isagi sighs, peels her off the furniture, and tucks her in like he’s folding laundry – gently, but with the exhausted speed of someone on a timer. 

he reads her a bedtime story. or at least, he tries. because she keeps interrupting every five seconds. 

“what’s a dragon?” 

“do dragons have moms?” 

“what if the dragon was a girl but wanted to be a boy?” 

“do you think i can be a dragon?” 

“do you think mommy could beat a dragon in a fight?” 

“… yes?” isagi says, halfway through losing his mind. “but she’d try to make friends with it first.” 

you stifle a laugh from the hallway. he shoots you a desperate look. 

finally, finally, your daughter yawns. her tiny hand finds his, and she mumbles, “you’re my favorite person, daddy.” 

his expression melts. “you’re mine too, baby girl.” 

you head back downstairs thinking that’s the end of it, but ten minutes later isagi comes down with marker on his face, a princess tiara tangled in his hair, and a plushie stuck in his hoodie. 

“she told me i had to dress like bedtime royalty,” he mutters, collapsing on the couch next to you. 

“well, you are king of the jungle gym.” 

“... do kings get ibuprofen?” 

you kiss his cheek. “only the cutest ones.”