Nathaniel confirms this when I pick him up, because the unhappy noises turn into a full-on scream: mouth open, eyes closed, face bright red.
“Oh, shit,” Kat says as I try to awkwardly settle him against my shoulder. He’s not having it.
“Don’t listen to your Aunt Kat, she’s a bad influence,” I tell Nathaniel, who can’t possibly hear me over his own screaming.
“I’ve got, like, four years before I have to worry about swearing,” she says, heading into the kitchen. “I’m getting a bottle!”
“You’re okay, buddy,” I tell Nathaniel, who doesn’t believe me. “And no, she’s never met a child before.”
I walk Nathaniel around some while he screams his head off. From the kitchen, I can hear Kat swearing as she fiddles with the bottle warmer that Levi and June brought over, along with the car seat, a travel crib, several bottles, five changes of clothing, a diaper pad, and what looks like a year’s worth of diapers. There’s easily five times as much baby stuff as there is actual baby.
“Okay!” June says, coming out of the kitchen with a bottle in one hand and The Nathaniel Manual in the other, open to the page about how to feed a baby. June has been very thorough, and I’m trying not to read too much into it.
Then, we stare at each other. I’ve fed Nathaniel a handful of times before, but again: I was being supervised at the time.
“Maybe sit on the couch?” Kat says, pointing. “And sort of, prop him up against… yeah.”
“Okay, buddy,” I say, hoping I sound soothing instead of panicky. Apparently my one paternal instinct is to call an infant buddy. “Okay. Here we go.”
I take the bottle from Kat and sort of… put it on his mouth. He cries for a few seconds more, then seems to realize that something is going on in the face region, and quickly gets down to business.
Kat and I both exhale as the room goes quiet.
“See?” I tell Nathaniel. “You’re in great hands.”
* * *
Several hours later,Kat and I are slumped together on the couch, staring into space. Nathaniel and all of his possessions are gone, picked up by parents who seemed really happy to have a night alone. There’s puke on my shirt, and one lens of Kat’s glasses is smudged to hell because Nathaniel took a liking to them.
“That was okay,” she finally says. “I’d do it again. Next month.”
“I’m not sure who’s more damaged, us or him,” I tell her, and she snorts.
“I didn’t swear that much,” she says. “Or drop him even once! Or let Beast eat him! Or hand him a knife!”
“Yeah, you’re a natural,” I tell her, and she laughs.
“You did okay,” she says. “That was cute. You’re a good uncle.”
Even though I’m tired and frazzled, it ignites a warm, fuzzy glow in my chest.
“Yeah?”
“Of course,” she says, tilting her head back on the couch. “And you’ll have a great time teaching that kid to raise hell in a few years.”
“Kat,” I say, putting one hand to my chest. “I would never.”
“You absolutely would,” she says, grinning.
“I’m not the one who hypnotized him with Pikachu.”
“Jigglypuff,” she corrects me as we both turn to look at it, still propped against an armchair.
It stares back, its eyes vacant, its smile alarming. Nathaniel spent a good twenty minutes on the floor staring at it, and I think we’re both a little worried that we’ve caused brain damage.
“It can’t be worse than screen time, right?” Kat says, eyes never leaving the large stuffed Pokémon.
“Probably not,” I say. And then: “Is screen time bad?”