Parenthood

"Goochie-goochie-goo! Awen't you just the cutest wittle thing? Youwr my wittle Rosey-Prosey, awen't you? Yes you awe, yes you awe! Blablablablabla-"

Sweet Cheeks sighed and looked over at her husband from the stove. "Honey, if she ends up talking like that when she gets older, I'm blaming you," she said gently and playfully, yet with slight irritation.

Crimson Rose stopped, rising up from his fishy face, and smiled sheepishly. "I'm just teaching her a few new words is all…"

"Yes, because 'Blablablabla' is totally a word," she said, containing her laughs, and returned to cooking.

The Pegasus grinned and replied happily, "It is now."

Sweet rolled her eyes as Crimson and the baby started giggling and making up words again.

Soon, the smell of crispy hayfries and daisy sandwiches soon filled the air, mixed with the scent of vanilla candles and carrot baby food. Sweet brought the food to the table, sitting next to Rosy, and popped open the jar.

Rosy was clapping her hooves hungrily, but Crimson stared at the orange slime in disgust. "We're giving our baby that?" he asked in horror.

"Yes. It's healthy for her," Sweet answered pointedly, levitating the spoon over to the jar and pouring it into a bowl. “I read the label, and you can always trust labels.”

He nearly gagged. "Dear," he began, shaking his head. "anything that looks like the aftermath of an orange apocalypse concealed in a jar cannot be good for a growing daughter. It may have artifical flavoring, or something poisonous like that."

“Our good friends- and good mothers- told me to try this a few days ago. They said it gives foals better eyesight," she retorted and picked up the spoon with her magic, then scooped up a blob of gunk.

He frowned. “Like she can’t see enough? She can apparently see everything she knocks over in my inspiration room.”

Sweet sent him a look that could kill, then quickly changed to a cheesy grin started feeding Rosy. "Here comes the choo choo train! Chuggachuggachuggachuggachuggachu-"

"And you said that I was making up nonsense words," Crimson remarked snidely.

Sweet put the food in Rosy's mouth, much to Crimson’s dismay, and retorted, "Chugga chugga is the sound that trains make, right Rosy?" The pink filly just swallowed the bite and made random slurping noises. Sweet sighed at the fact that she honestly believed she would answer her when she was eating.

Crimson snickered, then began chewing his sandwich so he didn't get in any more trouble.

After breakfast, Crimson sat in his inspiration room, deep in frustration. Crinkled balls of paper surrounded his desk, chair, and trash can. The candle shone bright next to his head, and there was a clean piece of paper and a quill laying unmoved on the table. The inspiration room was failing him, to say the least.

He ran his hooves through his snowy white mane and said, "My mind is screwing with me."

There was no knock when Sweet entered the room, with Rosy asleep by her chest. "Rosy doesn't like it when your minds screws with you," she whispered, and he nearly jumped out of his chair in surprise. She was confused by his sudden paranoia and walked over to the desk. "What's wrong, my love?"

Crimson sighed and looked up at her. "I've ran out of ideas…" he pouted.

His wife frowned. "A stallion who has written over 25 poems, all of which are legends in poetic history, cannot possibly be out of ideas," she insisted, then stared at his paper. "Hey, the page is blank."

He sighed inwardly. "Darling, that's the point."

"Oh." She pulled the pad of paper closer to her with her free hoof and lifted the quill with her magic. Tapping her chin thoughtfully with the feather tip, she whispered, "What did you plan on writing about?"

"I don't know," he said, shrugging shamefully. "Something lovey and sweet, I guess." With the confusion clotting his mind, he suddenly broke out into a fit of painful coughing, and Sweet patted his back with a hoof sympathetically. Rosy had even woken up crying and Sweet had to calm her back down so she didn't worry Crimson any further.

After a minute or two, when he finally stopped panting and her daughter went back to sleep, she said thoughtfully, “Something sweet, yes? Well, spring is coming soon.”

Crimson held his head up with his arms on the desk. “Yeah, what about it? You wanna join the animal team again? Because I'm not dealing with those skunks this year," he said, unamused.

Sweet rolled her eyes at his lack of understanding and replied calmly, “Spring is a popular subject to write about. Usually it’s about love.” She paused, then added, “But I want you to be creative and free, honey. I wouldn’t expect something cliche from you.”

“Spring?” he said, tasting the word and let the ideas burst on his tongue. “Hm.”

She smiled; he was back on track. Since he had gotten that mysterious, nasty heart disease, he had lost some of his poetic ideas and easy-going thoughts of life. Hopefully it wasn’t a permanent thing.

While he began scribbling what Sweet called “chicken scratch” onto the paper, she pecked him on the cheek and walked out of the room with pride swelling her heart.

Crimson had turned around to watch her fla- leave, then stared down at the paper and continued jotting down ideas. The thoughts streamed from his mind to his hoof, down the feather, and onto the paper, like a straw.

After what seemed like an hour, he finally had a general idea of the poem. There were a few doodles here and there, but mainly words like “flower,” “heart,” and “butterfly,” were all over the paper. He looked down proudly at it.

“Knock knock,” Sweet’s soothing voice floated from the doorway, and Crimson turned. She had on her makeup now, and Rosy was wide awake and a bit upset in her arm. “I think Rosy wants to talk to you for a while. Spend some daddy-daughter time with her," she said, looking down at Rosy's pouty face.

Crimson smiled and stretched his hooves out. Once he was given Rosy, he turned back around in his chair to where they were by the desk together.

“Good morning, baby doll,” he cooed, brushing the golden curls away from her eyes and horn. “Did you want daddy?”

Rosy giggled, not paying any attention to his question, and gazed upon his dark red feathers. She reached across his back and grabbed his left wing with her teeth, then pulled sharply.

“Agh!” he said, jerking her back and rolling into a bought of coughs. Thankfully, he held the worried Rosy away from his face so he didn’t get spit all over her.

He stopped, falling back in his chair and breathing hard, gasping softly for air. Rosy brought herself closer to Crimson when she felt it was safe and held his face in her miniature hooves. “Dada kay?” she said in a slow but understandable whisper. She stared at him with huge lavender eyes, sparkling with fear for her father.

Crimson stared back with his own icy blue ones, dull with tiredness. But he tried his best to hide it. “Yes,” he said, swallowing another bit of air. “Dada’s okay.”

She smiled and tugged him into one of her random bear hugs. Taken by surprise, at first he didn't know what to do. She barely hugged anypony, not even her parents. He just decided to do what he normally did when his wife hugged him and put his hooves around her lightly and snuggled closer.

All the while, Sweet leaned against the doorhenge, her smile wide. “Well, isn’t that just adorable?” she muttered to where they couldn’t hear her. She didn’t want to interrupt their heartwarming moment.