Robert “DoDad” adjusted his reading glasses and flipped through his crossword puzzle book while rocking lazily in his chair. The morning was peaceful—birds chirped outside, and the smell of Sonja’s freshly brewed coffee filled the air.
Across the room, two cherubic faces stared at him with an intensity that, for babies, was…unusual.
Creighton (16 months old, prone to dramatic sighs) and Sawyer (15 months old, cunning, perpetually chewing on something) sat side by side in the living room, tiny fingers tapping on their toy tablets.
DoDad glanced up. “You two up to no good?”
Creighton didn’t even look up. “Define ‘no good.’”
DoDad’s jaw nearly dislocated from how hard it dropped. “SONJA! THE BABIES CAN TALK!”
Grammy Sonja appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Of course they can, Robert. Babies babble all the time.”
“No. No, Sonja. They just spoke to me. In full sentences.”
Before Grammy could roll her eyes, Sawyer turned his deep, intelligent gaze on her. “We hacked the U.S. power grid.”
A silence thick as biscuit dough filled the room.
Then Creighton added, “And unless we get cake in the next thirty minutes, we will crash it.”
DoDad blinked. Then he took a deep breath and did what any reasonable grandfather would do in this situation: he got up and poured himself something stronger than coffee.
“Okay. Okay. Let me get this straight,” he said, rubbing his temples. “You…baby-sized gremlins…hacked the U.S. power grid?”
Creighton sighed like he was explaining basic addition to someone who thought numbers were a government conspiracy. “Yes, DoDad. It wasn’t even that hard. Your infrastructure is outdated, firewalls laughable. Honestly, it was embarrassing.”
Sawyer nodded sagely. “We only used a Fisher-Price keyboard.”
DoDad let out a slow whistle. “Well, that’s just sad.”
Grammy, the only person in the house who could solve a crisis before her second cup of coffee, clapped her hands. “Alright, boys. What kind of cake are we talking about here?”
Creighton and Sawyer exchanged glances. “Chocolate,” Creighton declared.
“With sprinkles,” Sawyer added.
“Non-negotiable.”
“Absolutely.”
Grammy sighed and turned toward the kitchen. “Robert, go get the flour.”
“Sonja, we don’t negotiate with—” DoDad stopped. He looked at the two babies, then at the faint glow of code reflecting off their tiny screens, and sighed. “Never mind. We negotiate with terrorists now.”
As Grammy whipped up the batter, DoDad kept the pint-sized masterminds entertained with pressing questions.
“So…how’d you even figure out how to hack the grid?”
Creighton, scrolling through complex lines of code with one hand and picking at his diaper strap with the other, shrugged. “We’re geniuses.”
Sawyer nodded. “Born this way. You ever see a baby’s brain scan? We’ve got more neural activity than a NASA control center.”
“And yet, you…demand cake?”
“Cake is universal. Cake is justice,” Creighton said.
Sawyer nodded. “Cake is inevitable.”
DoDad rubbed his face. “I need a nap.”
Fifteen minutes later, Grammy pulled the cake from the oven, frosting it with precision that would make Michelangelo weep.
“It needs to cool,” she said.
Creighton’s fingers hovered over his screen. “We can give you…three minutes.”
“That’s not how cooling works, young man,” Grammy replied, setting the cake on the windowsill. “Five more.”
Creighton’s brow furrowed. “Seven. Final offer.”
Sawyer whispered something in his ear.
“Fine. Five,” Creighton relented.
DoDad sat down with the exhaustion of a man who had just lived through a national crisis involving toddlers.
Then, Grammy set the cake down before them.
The boys lifted their forks, their eyes shining with the wonder of creation itself.
As they took their first bites, the screens on their tablets went dark. The power grid was safe.
For now.
Later that night, as DoDad and Grammy finally relaxed, a tiny voice piped up from the baby monitor.
“Next week…we want pie.”
DoDad groaned. “Sonja, we’re in trouble.”
