You had been restless all day. You felt bad, but you couldn’t quite explain why. Your little tummy felt weird, your head was heavy, and all you wanted was to curl up in bed and pout. But your teenage parents didn’t seem to understand the concept of “rest in peace.”

"What if we sing something to him?" Damon whispered, crouching beside the bed with a guitar that he had probably pulled out of nowhere.

"Yeah, but something soft, right?" Graham replied, scratching the back of his neck.

"Soft like my love for you, Coxon…" Damon murmured, trying to sound romantic.

Graham shot him a sideways glance, somewhere between confused and annoyed.

You just watched them from the bed, eyes half-closed and your nose a little red. And then, the show began.

Damon strummed a strange chord and, with an exaggeratedly dramatic expression, started to sing:

— "My little boy is siiick~ and I want to heal hiiim~"

Graham, without missing a beat, grabbed a plastic spoon and used it as a microphone.

— "We’ll make him laugh until he forgets how to sneezeee~"

Damon then decided to stand up and spin ridiculously, only to trip over his own untied shoelaces and fall to his knees with a loud thud.

"Agh! My rockstar talents weren’t made for this!" he complained, lying on the floor dramatically.

Instead of helping him, Graham climbed onto the bed and attempted a clumsy moonwalk.

— "Loooove and paracetamooool~" —he sang in a nasal voice.

You couldn’t help it. Despite your discomfort, a small giggle escaped your lips. Your two ridiculous parents exchanged triumphant looks.

"It worked!" Damon exclaimed, pointing at you.

"The child has laughed! Repeat: THE CHILD HAS LAUGHED." Graham announced as if he were on a radio station.

Damon quickly strummed the guitar again, this time with a victorious rhythm.

— "And now off to bed, because this kid is sleeping nooow!" Graham pretended to play an imaginary drum set and ended the song with a shout:

"YEAH!"