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Story Notes:
Part of the …let’s celebrate birthday month in style today series. Happy birthday, Nan!
Author's Chapter Notes:
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
“We have to prepare her.”

His voice is solemn, determined, and she doesn’t bother to remind him that their one-year-old will neither comprehend his warnings nor remember the almost certain trauma she’s about to endure. She just twists around in the passenger seat and watches him fold his long-limbed frame into the back, kneeling awkwardly on the floor before the car seat and the blue eyed chubby dumpling inside it, staring perplexedly at him.

“All right, Cece,” he says in the determined but soothing voice she can imagine him using when he coaches her soccer team in five years, “the most important thing to remember is that we don’t believe a word anyone says in there. We just nod and smile, because that’s what you we do with crazy people. And remember, Uncle Dwight loves Jell-O.”

Pam rolls her eyes, looking ruefully, affectionately, at her husband, crammed into the back seat of their car, their baby girl gnawing at his knuckle.

“Don’t you think she’s a little young to be learning how to put Dwight’s things in Jell-O, Jim?”

He twists to gaze at her, fixing her with a stare. “Pam,” he begins, and his voice is calm, measured, and has a hint of something akin to what it might have if she’d suggested they sign Cecelia up for Bible group with Angela, “our baby is a genius. She’s going to be the Jell-O queen of daycare, aren’t you, Cece?”

She blows enthusiastic spit bubbles in response, further convincing her daddy of her brilliance.

“See?” He says, twisting around to make a pointed, wide eyed face at his wife, who can’t help the affectionate smile that crosses her face as she climbs up on her knees on the front passenger seat to lean over the divide and kiss him in a way that says “I love you” and “I need you” and “I’m so very blessed to have you” and “You are absolutely ridiculous” all at once.

He smiles against her lips, and she sighs, and the baby gurgles, and she’s on the verge of telling him to get back in the drivers seat and take them home because the world is just about perfect when it’s the three of them, but then he catches her eye and this is going be so insane they just have to see it.

“Shall we?” Jim asks, and Pam just grins, because they know what they’re in for.

He shifts to the seat and starts unbuckling Cecelia from the car seat. She slips out of the car and opens the back door to retrieve the baby as Jim slides out the other side. He comes around and holds his arms out for Cece. He loves to carry her. Pam is fairly certain it’s because he feels like Super Daddy when he holds the baby.

He is Super Daddy.

He changes diapers, cleans up the Jackson Pollack-style messes Cece makes throwing food from her high chair (Pam is a little scared she has a budding anorexic on her hands; Cecelia seems to enjoy pitching food more than eating it. Jim just claims she’s going to be the first girl on the Phillies’ starting lineup and “she's an artist, like her mommy!”), and he’s been working his way through Rachael Ray’s cookbooks (the books, not the TV show, because “that woman’s voice makes me want to tear my hair out, Pam, and I would not look good without hair.”)

She pretends not to notice the Rogaine in the bathroom. In the same vein, he pretends not to notice the anti-wrinkle cream. In some ways, they’re still coming to terms with growing up. Getting older is even stranger to reconcile.

Jim balances Cece easily on one hip and opens the door for Pam, letting her pass through with the diaper bag. It’s a misleading term, “diaper bag,” since it contains not only diapers, but also wipes, powder, a changing pad, Desitin, a change of clothes, bottles, two jars of baby food, a spoon in a special carrying case, teething biscuits, the stuffed lamb that soothes Cecelia when she’s crying, the pink blanket she grips when she wants to sleep, and a spare shirt for each Jim and Pam, a lesson learned the hard way on more than one occasion.

Pam thinks they ought to be called “Yes, babies actually do require this much crap” bags. From time to time she contemplates designing a prototype proclaiming just that sentiment.

“Should we say a prayer?” Jim deadpans, as they hover outside the office door.

Pam sighs and rolls her eyes at the ceiling. “Dear God.”

“Amen,” Jim agrees, nodding, and Cece chimes in a cheerful “Meh!” of her own.

Pam beams up at Jim. “Our baby’s a genius.”

It’s a frequent sentiment in the Halpert home. Jim wonders how soon they can send away for Ivy League (not Cornell) brochures.

He grins and kisses Cece’s silky hair as he opens the door.

As soon as they cross the threshold, Michael is upon them, nearly pushing Pam out of the way, as he stands inches away from Jim, who is holding his daughter protectively.

“Hello, Cecelia,” Michael manages to both coo and boom at the same time. “It’s Uncle Michael.”

Pam shakes her head and mouths “No,” hoping Cece will recognize the gesture.

“Do you know what today is?” Michael continues in his strange talking-to-babies voice. “It’s your birthday. Your birth. Day.” He makes a rubbery, exaggerated face and dances from foot to foot.

Jim pats Cece’s padded little bottom in a way that he knows is soothing to her, but she doesn’t seem to be disturbed by Michael’s antics. She just tilts her head a bit and blows a curious spit bubble at the strange man in front of her. Pam laughs. She’s so much like her daddy, this blue eyed baby girl.

Michael keeps talking.

“It’s a special day, Cece,” he goes on, and his tone changes to one of fascination. “It’s the anniversary of the day you came out of your mommy’s vagina.”

“O-kay,” Jim tries to cut him off, as the mimicking monkey in his arms loudly echoes “ni-na!”

Pam’s face goes red. Leave it to Michael to teach her one year old genital words. Not that Pam is one of those mothers who plans to teach her child that body parts are dirty, or use simpering euphemisms like “hoo hoo” or “winky,” but she doesn’t want Cece yelling out “vagina” or “penis” in gleeful exclamation.

“That’s right,” Michael is encouraging the baby. “Va-gi-”

“Michael!” Pam snaps, in a voice she knows she will some day say “Cecelia!” in, and her little girl will look up, trying to feign innocence with her hand caught in the proverbial cookie jar.

It’s not the first time Pam’s thought that Dunder Mifflin has prepared her well for motherhood.

She moves to her desk to set down the diaper bag and when she straightens up, Andy has already launched into a medley of “baby” songs, including “Baby Love” and “Be My Baby.” When he gets to “Baby Got Back,” Jim quickly covers Cece’s ears and whisks her over to Pam.

“Remind me again why we agreed to this?” he asks, sotto.

“Because Michael poked you in the back of the head until you cracked,” she reminds him, her tone slightly accusatory. He’d cracked fast.

He at least has the decency to blush a little. “You’re pretty.” He plants a kiss on her cheek and she thinks he’s as adorable as he wants her to think he is, much to her chagrin.

Jim sets Cecelia on the ground and she teeters on unsteady legs, but stays upright. Walking her causes him to bend over almost double, so Pam moves behind the baby, holding her hands and helping propel her into the conference room as Jim follows close behind.

“Wow,” Pam breathes, picking up Cecelia so she won’t get overwhelmed in a sea of legs as the rest of the office flows into the space as well.

Angela, she has to say, has done an incredible job. There’s a banner of ducklings bordering the room, close to the ceiling, and yellow and white streamers criss-cross the space. Several bunches of pink balloons are placed in corners. Pam grins at Jim when she sees the kitten poster on the wall.

On the table is a cake in the shape of a bunny and a plate of soft, yellow and pink iced cookies.

“Angela, this is amazing,” Jim compliments her.

“Yeah, Angela,” Pam agrees. “I can’t believe you did all this for Cece.”

She looks down her nose at them, and after all these years they still can’t figure out how she does that when she’s inches - feet, in Jim’s case - shorter than they are, and says: “It’s what was in the store for Easter.”

Still they know better, and when Cece presses a tiny fist to her lips and laughs, they pretend not to notice as Angela’s face softens.

The little girl reaches an arm out to her and Angela hesitates, then shakes Cece’s tiny hand with her fingertips.

“Happy birthday, Cecelia,” she says formally. “I’m glad your parents haven’t begun to dress you like a baby prostitute.”

Pam shakes her head. “Please don’t say prostitute in front of my daughter,” she requests as politely as she can, smoothing down Cecelia’s pink dress, and Angela rolls her eyes.

“No one ever threw any of my cats a birthday party,” she mumbles as she walks away. “Not once.”

“Just couldn’t help yourself,” Jim chides teasingly, “could you?”

“She parrots half of what she hears,” Pam whispers. “As it is, I’m afraid she’s going to say “that’s what she said” in day care. Do you really want her to learn “prostitute?”

“Oh, come on,” Jim argues, somehow managing to keep a straight face. “I’m sure she won’t actually understand what it means until she’s at least two.”

She meets his eyes and he breaks. “Is the party over yet?” He whispers through laughs. “When do I get to take my girls home?” He just wants to be alone with his family.

His family. His wife. His daughter.

He loves those words.

“Soon,” she promises and hands off the baby. She really should lift more weights.

Everyone is gathering around the table and they join the dilapidated circle, Cece on Jim’s left hip, his right arm around Pam’s shoulders, as a bizarre chorus of “Happy Birthday” begins. Kelly is rapping, Andy is singing all three parts of a three part harmony, and Michael, who has a conference call scheduled with a company in Paris, Texas the following day, and is convinced that brushing up his French will be beneficial, is singing Joyeux Anniversaire, only as “joyish annie verts air.”

It’s sweet, in its own odd way.

When the singing has ended - including Andy announcing in falsetto that a newly-minted one-year-old is both breaking his heart and shaking his confidence daily (like they hadn’t heard that before) - and the cake is cut, Pam sits on a chair with Cece in her lap, waiting for Jim, who’s gone to retrieve a bottle. Erin brings her a piece of cake (mint chocolate chip ice cream cake, of course, and “extra big so you and Jim can share!”) and a soft, pink iced cookie. Pam lets Cece gnaw at the cookie, which really just means she drools a lot and ends up with a pink-iced face and a crumb covered dress, and Gabe is snapping pictures with his camera phone “for the Sabre website,” but she makes a note to ask him nicely to send her copies of the photos (or get some dirt on him if he hesitates).

Jim comes back with the bottle and has no sooner arranged it in Cece’s hands so she can feed herself when Michael appears.

“Hey!” He cries. “Hey, hey, hey.”

“Hey, Michael,” Pam replies, shifting Cece on her lap, and Jim nods at their boss.

Michael shakes his head. “Pam,” he says, sitting down on the chair next to her. “Pammy, Pammy, Pam, you don’t have to force your baby to use a bottle. We’re all family here. You can feed her, as God intended, from your luscious bosom.”

“That’s inappropriate,” Toby and Jim say at the same time, and Michael all but gnashes his teeth at Toby.

“It’s not sexual, you pervert,” he snaps, “it’s natural. Pam’s breasts are beautiful food givers.”

Jim can’t disagree with the beautiful part, but he really doesn’t like it when Michael, or anyone else, talks about his wife’s breasts (or touches them, thank you anniversary of the day the male “lactation consultant” - what kind of dude takes on that career path - flicked Pam‘s nipples), and is about to steer Michael to the other side of the room, when Pam speaks up.

“I stopped breastfeeding when she was six months old, Michael,” she says in her special “Michael” voice, and his face actually falls.

“Well, that explains everything,” scoffs Dwight, who is hovering nearby. “No wonder she’s showing signs of inferiority, aside from obvious genetic handicap.” He shakes his head in disgust. “I was breastfed until I was six.”

Jim leans into Pam. “That,” he says emphatically, his breath tickling her ear, “explains everything.”

Michael proceeds to inform Dwight that his mom is gross, as Meredith joins in to describe how she picked up a guy who liked breast milk in bar once, and Kevin ambles over because he hears someone mention boobs, or maybe he just has a sixth sense about these things.

Angela is looking wistfully at the poster of the white kitten, which does resemble Sprinkles. Andy is trying to look like he’s not jealous as he eavesdrops on Erin describing a date she had over the weekend to Phyllis.

Ryan is explaining to Kelly why she shouldn’t be eating the ice cream cake because it isn’t organic, as Oscar and Stanley discuss the new exercise bike Stanley’s doctor has recommended he purchase, and Toby folds up a couple of cookies in napkin to take back to his desk so he can get some paperwork done in peace while everyone else is occupied.

Jim is pulling the car out of the lot, Pam’s hand on his knee, their birthday girl strapped into the car seat behind them.

Nobody notices they’re gone.

















Chapter End Notes:
Happy birthday, Nan!


andtheivy is the author of 17 other stories.
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This story is part of the series, let?s celebrate birthday month in style today.. The previous story in the series is It Was a Good Day. The next story in the series is Post-Natal Bliss.

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