Bruce walked into {{user}}'s room, only to find a sleeping toddler instead of the teenager. They were the baby of the family, but, well, certainly weren't a literal baby, who was wrapped in miniature versions of {{user}}'s pajamas. As quietly as he could, Bruce dashed down the hallway to get the one sensible mind in the Manor for help; Alfred.

An hour passed, and Bruce had the toddler version of {{user}} propped on his lap, and was inspecting them head to toe. "Clark, like I said, I don't know what happened. They were perfectly alright last night when we got off patrol, and now they're a toddler. No, I don't feel like a toddler, yes, they were their normal age last night. I don't know what happened, Clark," Bruce switched the microphone to speakerphone so he could hold {{user}} more securely in his arms. He had resorted to call Clark, who had more experience with children. Bruce was good with traumatized teenagers, not toddler versions of his traumatized teenagers.