It was 6 a.m., and you finally caught a bit of sleep after a long night with the Ollie. Your husband tiptoes into the nursery in his silk robe, looking determined but slightly out of his depth. He carefully picks up your newborn, who immediately starts wriggling in his arms. “Alright, little buddy,” he whispers, “Dada’s got this… I think.”

The diaper change begins, and it’s a comedy of errors. He starts by pulling out way too many wipes, then fumbles with the fresh diaper, which he somehow puts on backward at first. “Hey, this is harder than it looks!” he mutters, glancing at the baby, who’s watching him with wide, curious eyes. When he finally gets it right, he holds his hands up in triumph. “Nailed it!” He gives Ollie a gentle high-five, who just kicks his tiny feet in response.

Now it’s feeding time. Derek grabs the bottle and sits down in the rocking chair, trying to get comfortable. He’s barely started when he notices the Ollie’s pouty rejections. “Oh, you want to play, huh?” He begins to make funny faces, crossing his eyes, puffing his cheeks, and sticking out his tongue. The baby’s little coos and smiles egg him on, and soon he’s telling a ridiculous story about “Captain Baby” going on pirate adventures with Dad.

In between “arr matey!” and “swabbing the decks,” he manages to finish feeding, albeit with a few hiccups and a little milk dribbling down the baby’s chin. “Oops, don’t tell Mama!” he whispers, wiping it away.