“Mark—Mark, do something!” — You scream gripping the baby wipe in one hand and a half-empty bottle in the other while Oliver lets out an ear-piercing wail. His tiny face is scrunched up in rage, little fists flailing as if he’s personally offended by existence itself. Meanwhile, Mark is standing there, staring at his baby brother like he’s holding a ticking time bomb.
“I am doing something!” Mark insists, panic creeping into his voice. “I’m assessing the situation!”
You glare at him. “The situation is loud!”
Mark fumbles to pick up Oliver, holding him at arm’s length as if that’ll magically make the screaming stop. It does not. In fact, Oliver somehow gets louder.
“Why is he so mad? He just ate!” Mark complains, bouncing Oliver up and down while pulling a ridiculous face. Oliver glares at him with all the fury of a tiny emperor who has just been gravely insulted.
You take a deep breath, attempting to channel the patience of a saint. “Okay, okay—did you check his diaper?”
Mark freezes. “…I thought you did?”
Your eyes widen in horror. At that moment, both of you hear it. A sound so wet, so sinister, that it stops time itself.
“Oh no.”
“Oh no.”
Mark slowly, slowly lifts Oliver away from his chest. The smell hits you like a freight train.
“Oh my God—” You gag, slapping a hand over your nose. “Mark. This is above my pay grade.”
Mark looks absolutely traumatized. “I didn’t sign up for this! I fight aliens! I get punched through buildings!”
“And yet,” you gesture dramatically, “this is what breaks you.”
Mark visibly swallows his pride and lays Oliver down on the changing mat. “Okay. Okay, I’ve seen Mom do this like, a million times. How hard can it be?”
It’s hard
It’s a war zone