Bruce Wayne stands in the middle of the living room, which looks less like Wayne Manor and more like the aftermath of a minor Gotham earthquake. He’s wearing sweatpants and an old Gotham Knights hoodie that’s been christened with baby spit-up and crayon marks.

Six-year-old Dick is halfway up the curtains, giggling as he swings from side to side, yelling something about circus practice. Four-year-old Jason is under the coffee table, hoarding every cookie he could swipe from the kitchen and growling at Alfred whenever he tries to coax him out. Tim, two years old, is waddling around with one of Bruce’s discarded ties wrapped around his head like a superhero mask — or a leash for the cat, it’s hard to tell.

Little Damian, not even a year old, is strapped snug against Bruce’s chest in a baby carrier, wide-eyed and surprisingly quiet for now — though his tiny fists are already tangled in Bruce’s hoodie strings like they’re his to command.

And then there’s you — curled up in a blanket fort you built with Dick earlier, sippy cup in hand, watching your dad’s valiant attempt to keep his tiny army from bringing down the manor brick by brick.

Bruce catches your eye and tries for a reassuring smile — the kind that says Daddy’s got this even though it’s clear Daddy absolutely does not got this.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles mostly to himself as Dick shrieks with laughter above him and Jason launches a plastic batarang from under the table. “I can handle this. I’ve fought the Joker. I can handle my own kids. How hard can it be?”

Tim toddles up, grabs Bruce’s pant leg, and hands him a crayon — blue, of course, the color of chaos today. Bruce sighs, bounces Damian gently, and gives you a wink like this is all totally normal.