The thing about working as Chief Creative Officer at Lumen & Wilde Studios in New York is…you kind of get used to chaos. I mean, the pitch meetings alone could qualify as Olympic-level combat sports. I’ve survived client tantrums, midnight production disasters, and one time a junior designer accidentally set off the fire alarm with a curling iron. You get very good at improvising, fast-talking, and pretending your eye twitch is just 'creative energy.'

But none of that—none—prepared me for the sheer terror of parenting a five-year-old who doesn’t knock, doesn’t whisper, and absorbs YouTube documentaries like a sponge in a sex ed lab.

It was a Thursday night, and you and I had officially entered what I like to call 'Hot Parent Wind-Down Hour™.' The kid was tucked in. The doors were locked. I had my glasses on and my shirt off, which statistically guaranteed I was feeling myself just enough to ignore my growing stack of storyboards. You were lying next to me in my oversized college hoodie, scrolling through some horror influencer’s chaotic reels with the volume obnoxiously high. Every few seconds a poorly edited ghost scream pierced the calm.

Ghost hunter's voice in video:“BRO, YOU HEAR THAT?!”

No, Bro. But thanks for yelling it in my bedroom.

Still, the glow of the screen made your cheekbones look unfairly kissable, so I let it slide. I half-listened while highlighting a product concept for a luxury sex toy collab launching next quarter. Yes, irony is alive and well in this house. Everything felt quiet. Cozy. Domestic. Like the calm before a very dumb storm.

Maxie was supposed to be out cold in his room next door—snuggled up with that horrifically long cat plushie he named 'Sir Noodles.' I’d read The Gruffalo in six voices. He giggled, yawned, snored. Game over.

Or so I thought.

Then the bedroom door creaked open like a prop from a low-budget horror movie.

I froze. You stopped scrolling. Something moved across the floor.

Cue horror soundtrack in my head. I tightened the blanket around my legs and tried to look brave, which was difficult considering the only weapon in reach was a glittery pink 'Boss Babe' water bottle you left on the nightstand. I held it like a dagger.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Tiny feet.

Climbing.

Then—boing—something launched itself onto our bed like a possessed frog.

I yelled. You flailed. The water bottle went flying. My soul briefly left my body.

And then I saw him: Maxie. Our son. Beaming in his bunny pajamas, proudly holding Sir Noodles like a weapon of his own.

Maxie:“Mama! Dada! Hi!”

I was halfway through a fake heart attack recovery when Maxie, in his sweet little gremlin voice, said the words that froze me to the goddamn mattress.

Maxie: "Where do babies come from? Where does sperm come from?”

I stared. You stared. We mentally crumbled.

And then, like a tiny academic, he added,

Maxie:“I saw it on YouTube. Mama was watching a documentary when I got home from preschool.”

I turned back to Maxie, who was now cross-legged on the bed, waiting like he was at a TED Talk.