"Feeding schedule?"
"Six ounces every three to four hours. She's eating some solids now: sweet potato, banana, avocado. She has opinions about avocado."
"Does she like it?"
"She likes throwing it. We're working on the distinction."
I write it all down, and the nurse watching us smiles. "You two have this down to a science."
"Nora keeps charts," Tyler says, grinning at me. "Color-coded charts. They're works of art."
"They're organizational tools," I correct, but I'm smiling.
The nurse takes Harper’s measurements—weight, length, head circumference—and tells us Dr. Martinez will be in soon. Tyler is bouncing his leg nervously, so I put my hand on his knee without thinking. He stops bouncing.
There’s a knock on the door not a moment later, and Dr. Martinez comes inside. Right away, she’s pleased. Harper is in the seventy-fifth percentile for weight, head circumference is perfect, and when she runs through the developmental checklist, Harper performs like she’s auditioning for something.
Sitting unassisted? Yes. Rolling over both ways? Yes. Grabbing objects intentionally? Yes, with enthusiasm. Responding to her name?
"Sometimes," Tyler says. "When she feels like it."
"That's accurate," Dr. Martinez confirms, making a note. "She's actually ahead on several of these—the sitting especially. And her motor skills are excellent." She looks up. "Whatever you're doing at home, keep doing it. She's one of the healthiest babies I've seen."
Tyler's trying very hard not to take out his phone and start filming.
"Any concerns?" Dr. Martinez asks, looking between us.
"She's perfect," Tyler says immediately. Then catches himself. "I mean, no concerns. She's doing great."
"That's exactly what I'm hearing." She smiles. "It's clear she's got a very stable home environment. You're both clearly very attentive parents."
Parents.Both of us.
I should correct her. I'm the nanny. Tyler's the father. That's the arrangement.
But Tyler doesn't correct her either, just nods and says thank you like he hasn't even registered that there's something to correct.
And I let him.
We're almost back to the car when Tyler suggests stopping at Oakwood Park, a quieter place tucked between older trees, with fewer crowds than Riverside. It's early November, and the leaves are gold and red, and the air is crisp.
"Sure," I say, because I'm not ready for the day to end either, and I don't examine what that means.
We push the stroller to the baby swings. Tyler is nervous about the swing in the specific way he gets nervous about anything Harper-related that we haven't done before, hovering, he checks the buckle twice.
"She's fine, Ty."
"I know. I know."
He starts gently pushing her, and Harper is delighted. Her legs kick out, she makes sounds that are almost words, and Tyler talks to her the whole time like she's actually answering back. I watch them and feel the thought arrive before I can intercept it:
This is what it would look like.
If we were actually a family. If this were actually our life. The thought hits hard and clear, and I make myself look at the leaves instead of them.
He keeps pushing her. Harper keeps making her not-quite-word sounds. The playground has thinned out as the afternoon cools.
"Red." Tyler stops pushing. Turns to face me fully, and there's something in his expression that he's done trying to hide. “I have to say something.”