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The morning Little Rainy discovered her voice, the world tilted just a little bit on its axis—at least for Papa Firstone, who had been waiting ten whole months for exactly this moment.
It wasn't a word, exactly. It was more of a "brrrrrrrrp" followed by a delighted squeal that vibrated through her entire body, making her boba-round eyes (inherited from Tle, those deep brown pools that seemed to hold entire galaxies) crinkle at the corners. But Firstone? Firstone heard music.
"Did you hear that, Tle?" he whispered, as if speaking too loudly might scare the magic away. "She's singing."
Tle laughed from the kitchen, where he was attempting to make coffee with one hand while keeping an eye on the baby monitor with the other—a skill they'd both mastered somewhere around month four, when sleep had become a theoretical concept rather than a daily guarantee. "She's blowing raspberries, love."
"Same thing," Firstone insisted, scooping Little Rainy up from her play mat. She immediately grabbed a fistful of his hair—her favorite handle, apparently—and giggled when he pretended to yelp. "She's a prodigy. Mozart was probably exactly like this."
Little Rainy had Papa Firstone's cheeks. There was no denying it—those perfect, pinchable orbs that turned rosy whenever she was excited (which was often) or about to cry (which was also often, because ten-month-olds contain multitudes). And her lips! Firstone's own mouth, that little bow shape that could pucker into the most devastating pout when she wanted to be picked up, or stretch into a gummy, four-toothed grin that could stop traffic.
But those eyes. Oh, those eyes were all Tle. Wide and wondering, taking in the world with a gentle curiosity that made strangers stop and coo in grocery stores. "She's looking at me like I have all the answers," Firstone had said once, overwhelmed. Tle had just kissed his temple and replied, "She's looking at you like you're home."
---
That was the thing about being first-time papas—they were building the airplane while flying it, and sometimes the wings fell off, and sometimes they soared.
Firstone remembered the first night home from the hospital with painful clarity. Little Rainy had been so small, a tiny loaf of bread wrapped in a yellow blanket, and he had been terrified to even hold her. What if he did it wrong? What if he wasn't enough? What if he was supposed to know things that he didn't know?
He had sat in the rocking chair at 3 AM, Tle finally asleep on the couch from sheer exhaustion, and Little Rainy had hiccupped in his arms. Just a tiny sound. Hic. Then hic again. And Firstone had started talking—nonsense, really, about how the nightlight looked like a little moon, and how her socks had ducks on them, and how he was going to learn to braid her hair even though he currently couldn't manage his own.
She had stared at him. Those boba eyes, dark and endless, watching his mouth move.
And then she had sighed, a little whistling exhale, and fallen asleep on his chest.
Oh, he had thought, feeling the weight of her, the warmth. Oh, this is what it's for.
---
"Papa," Firstone would say, pointing to himself. "Pa-pa. Can you say Papa?"
Little Rainy would respond by grabbing his nose and screaming with joy.
"Dada," Tle would try, during bath time, making funny faces to keep her from fussing. "Da-da. I'm Dada!"
Little Rainy would splash him directly in the eye and cackle like a tiny supervillain.
"She's doing it on purpose," Firstone insisted, though he was grinning. "She's waiting for maximum impact. She's strategic, Tle. Like a general."
"She's ten months old."
"Age is just a number. Look at her. She's plotting."
And maybe she was, in her own way. Because one ordinary Tuesday—so ordinary that the sun was doing that slanted afternoon thing through the nursery window, and Firstone was singing his ridiculous made-up song about putting on socks (a daily battle of epic proportions)—Little Rainy looked at him, really looked, and opened her mouth.
"Puh..."
Firstone froze mid-verse. "What? Say it again. Rainy, say it again, please, I'm begging you, I'll buy you a pony—"
"Puh-puh..."
Tle appeared in the doorway, dish towel over his shoulder, eyes wide. "Is she—?"
"Papa!" Firstone whisper-shouted. "She's saying Papa! Little Rainy, I'm Papa! Yes! Yes, I am! I am your Papa!"
What came out was closer to "Buh-buh," followed by immediate distraction as she spotted her own foot and decided it was the most fascinating object in the universe. But Firstone didn't care. Firstone had heard what he needed to hear. He scooped her up, spinning her gently, and she laughed that deep belly laugh that started in her toes, the one that made her Firstone-cheeks puff out and her Tle-eyes squeeze shut.
"You're going to call me Papa," he told her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "And Tle is Dada. We're figuring it out together, little raindrop. All three of us."
---
Because that was the truth of it, the thing they were learning day by day, mistake by mistake, victory by tiny victory: there was no manual for this. There was no "right way" that existed in a vacuum, separate from their specific, wonderful, chaotic little family.
Firstone had spent the first three months feeling like he was failing because he couldn't get her to sleep through the night. Tle had cried in the car once after a pediatrician appointment where he'd asked "too many questions" and felt foolish. They'd both snapped at each other over whose turn it was to change a diaper at 4 AM, and then held each other in the dark, apologizing, exhausted, trying.
But they'd also discovered that Little Rainy calmed down instantly when Firstone hummed off-key renditions of 90s pop songs. They'd learned that Tle had a gift for making airplane noises that could turn any vegetable into a desirable object. They'd found that she liked to be walked in circles when she was fussy, that she hated socks but loved hats, that she would eat anything if you let her hold the spoon (messy, but effective).
They were explorers, the three of them. Cartographers mapping uncharted territory.
"Papa," Firstone would remind her, when she was curled against him, fighting sleep, her boba eyes drooping. "And Dada. You have two papas, little raindrop. Two people who would move mountains for you. Two people who are learning as we go."
Sometimes she would reach up and pat his cheek with her small, perfect hand. Sometimes she would say "Da" and look toward the kitchen where Tle was making dinner, and Firstone's heart would expand so fast he thought it might burst.
She had his clinginess, that need to be close, to touch, to confirm that love was present and physical and here. Firstone would wear her in the carrier for hours, her warm weight against his chest, because she needed it, because he needed it. "You're just like your papa," Tle would say, amused, watching them nap together on the couch, two peas in a pod, breathing in sync.
And when she was older, when she could run and talk and ask questions, they would tell her: We didn't know what we were doing. But we knew we loved you. And that was enough to start with.
---
One evening, as summer was turning to fall and the light was getting golden earlier, Firstone sat in the rocking chair with Little Rainy dozing against his shoulder. Tle sat on the floor nearby, sorting laundry in that mindless way parents do when they finally sit down but can't actually stop moving.
"Do you think she knows?" Firstone asked quietly. "How much we love her? Even when we mess up?"
Tle looked up, and his eyes—those eyes that Little Rainy had inherited, soft and deep and kind—met Firstone's. "I think," he said slowly, "that love isn't about being perfect. I think it's about showing up. And we show up, First. Every day, we show up."
Little Rainy stirred, made a small sound, and settled closer. Her hand found Firstone's shirt, gripping the fabric even in sleep, holding on.
"Papa," Firstone whispered to her, though she was dreaming. "I'm your Papa. And that's Tle, your Dada. And you, little raindrop, are the best thing we ever did. Even when we don't know what we're doing. Especially then."
She sighed, a small whistling sound, just like that first night. And Firstone sang to her, soft and off-key, about socks and ducks and love that didn't need to be perfect to be real.
---
For all the first-time parents figuring it out as they go: you're doing better than you think. The love is the map. Follow it.