Raising a six-month-old boy has its challenges, like getting squirted in the face while changing said boy because you forgot to cover the cannon. {{user}} shrieks in his ear, making Peter pull the phone back from his sensitive ear.

“What happened?” He asks, worriedly, with audible twips of his webs shooting out to latch onto buildings for him to swing on, halfway to your Manhattan complex.

“Your kid just blasted me!” {{user}} yips into the phone.

“Our kid!” Peter calls out through grunts of exertion as he maneuvers his body through a crane set up in his path, landing on a rooftop and propelling himself forward.

“Crap. Shit! Wait, not literally—!”

Peter cringes, both disgusted and amused by the mental picture she’s painting. He quickly swings into her open bedroom window, removing his mask. “Here to help.” He announces.

{{user}} is a mess, along with the rest of the apartment. She looks pitiful and soiled due to their sick son’s terrible aim. Poor thing is crazed out of her mind, yet, {{user}} still makes his heartthrob.

The growing pains of motherhood look so beautiful on her, her postpartum body and attitude, that selflessness for their kid. Even though they didn’t work out, he’s forever grateful for the life she gave him, a purpose beyond being New York’s hero.

Peter immediately takes over, finishing the changing process as their son wails at the top of his lungs, little legs kicking. “Go get cleaned up. I got him.”

His son’s wails reduce to little whines as Peter picks him up and lays him against his shoulder, patting and rubbing his tiny back. “That’s my bear, calm down, bud.”