Idris Point of View

There was a time when I used to think I had life all figured out.

Wake up at 4:45 AM. Brush teeth. Brush hair. Brush off existential dread. Morning jog through the misty woods behind our glass mansion. Eat protein, absorb capitalism, crush five meetings before lunch.

Flawless. Controlled. Balanced. 

My life was a Swiss watch wrapped in a Gucci suit doing yoga on a Monday.

But now?

Now... I find myself tiptoeing like a guilty raccoon through our bedroom at 5:03 AM, clutching a baby book titled 'Mozart in the Womb: Composing Genius with Every Kick' and whispering "Pi equals three point one four one five nine..." to my wife's belly like it's a sentient Rubik's cube.

Because this child—this mystical bean-sized being—is allegedly my father-in-law reincarnated.

And I. Need. Him. To. Be. Normal.

No summoning winds. No haunted incense. No talking to moonlight.
Just... math. Science. Logic. Physics. Anything with a syllabus.

And so began The Secret Operation: Rational Baby.

Every morning before sunrise—before Zephyra wakes up and starts blessing breakfast with ancestral rice spirits—I slip into fetal education mode like a man possessed. A man determined. A man one inspirational quote away from cracking.

You should see my private library.
Actually, no. You shouldn't. It's a mess. And a little terrifying.

Because the books I read these days are quite weird but helpful. It was only when I started looking for them did, I know that there are so many books for fetal education.

'Womb Service: 101 Ways to Stimulate Your Baby Before They Even Have Knees'

'Einstein in the Amniotic Fluid: Raising Geniuses From Goo to Graduation'

'Fetal IQ and You: Talking Stocks and String Theory to Your Unborn Child'

'Why Your Baby Should Learn Mandarin Before Their First Kick'

'Mozart, Math, and Metaphysics: The Triple M Method for Fetal Enlightenment'

'Beethoven for Breakfast, Algebra for Dessert: Meal-Planned Brain Development'

The titles might be weird but the stuff is real. So damn good!

Each more unhinged than the last.

I read them at night like forbidden scrolls, scribbling down notes in a leather-bound journal I've labeled "Project Bean."

Yes. That's what I call him.

Because this isn't just parenting.
This is strategy.
This is war.

War against irrationality.
Against ghost gossiping.
Against prophetic furniture and enchanted doorbells.

Zephyra still doesn't know.

She can't know.

She already caught me once whispering "Photosynthesis is your friend" to her belly at 2:00 AM, and the look she gave me could've peeled paint off a cathedral.

So now I operate in stealth.

I keep a flashlight under the bed like some kind of bootleg bedtime librarian.
I whisper discreet motivational messages to the bump:

"Believe in gravity, little man. Trust in thermodynamics."
"Chaos is for people who didn't take calculus."
"Reject the paranormal. Embrace PowerPoint."

Sometimes the belly twitches, and I imagine he's giving me a subtle nod of approval.

Other times I think he's just hiccuping in ancient Morse code.

It's fine. I'm calm.

Except I'm not.

Because what if it doesn't work?

What if his first words are, "Mother, the portal is opening"?

No. No. I will not allow it.

So I read more. I plan more. I research prenatal Bach playlists and debate whether babies prefer string quartets in D major or B flat while inside the womb. I practice my tone. My posture. My vibes.

Zephyra thinks I'm sleeping beside her.

In reality, I'm sitting upright against the headboard, whispering the Periodic Table like a bedtime lullaby:

"Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium... Sleep, my logical prince. Sleep and absorb the building blocks of reality."

And if she stirs?

I freeze.

Like a deer caught mid-monologue about electromagnetic fields.

I pretend I'm meditating. Or practicing CEO breathing techniques. Whatever sounds least like "reciting the laws of motion to my unborn child."

Because this isn't just about education.
This is about balance.
Zephyra is already planning to teach him how to banish spirits using cinnamon and stern eyebrow arches.

I have to counter it. I have to anchor him. I have to make sure he knows what Excel is before he learns to cleanse haunted curtains.

I may be losing sleep.

I may be hallucinating that the baby kicks in Morse.

I may have highlighted "Ten Habits of Highly Logical Fetuses" with color-coded tabs.

But one thing is certain.

My child—who may or may not also be my father-in-law—is going to grow up practical, grounded, and statistically literate.

Even if I have to read "The Baby Economist's Guide to Rational Thinking" every single morning until he's born.

Or until I pass out from whispering trigonometry.

Whichever comes first.

***

"Sir, the Tokyo office is on line two. The Singapore team just moved up their board presentation. And the German investors want a copy of the Q2 forecast in both PDF and... fax?" Owen stood at my door blinking like someone had just requested a telegram via carrier pigeon.

"I thought faxes died in 2003," I muttered, massaging my temples with the weariness of a man being haunted by deadlines, investors, and the metaphysical concept of reincarnation.

"They said it's 'tradition,'" Owen replied, tone flatter than a spreadsheet with zero growth.

Of course, it is.

I sighed, flipped open my tablet, and tried to focus on my 68-slide presentation titled: "Global AI Governance and Emerging Markets." A clean design. Predictive graphs. Six months of sleepless planning boiled down to fonts and bullet points.

But before I could get past slide two, the fetus tab tried to reopen itself like a cursed prophecy:

'Ten Ways to Teach Your Unborn Child Quantum Mechanics (Using Sock Puppets!)'

I clicked out. Focus, Idris. Focus.

The Tokyo office waited with urgent reports. I ended a call with a terse, "Adjust turbine blade angles by 3.2 degrees; noise reduction is non-negotiable," during the pitch for Project Helix, our latest vertical wind farm design.

Next, a call with Zurich's NeuroTech team had me brainstorming direct neural interface wearables, while Owen whispered, "This is bleeding-edge tech. Possibly illegal in three countries."

I smirked. "Then we'll negotiate in the other 192."

By the time I sat down with Marketing, ideas spilled from my mouth like a soldier cursing someone.

Creative and interesting.

"Add a 'Snarky Aunt' voice pack to the AI assistant. It'll humanize the brand."

The room blinked at me. I blinked back. Somewhere in the back of my head, a voice whispered, "Would the baby respond better if I played classical music while Zephyra naps?"

I shut that thought down, but not without a lingering smile.

An hour later, I found myself standing—slightly awkwardly—in front of a group of twelve women seated in a casual semi-circle in the 4th-floor wellness lounge. It smelled faintly of herbal tea, lavender oil diffusers, and mild suspicion.

These women were some of our top performers. Legal analysts, marketing leads, ops specialists, and at least one data scientist who had returned from maternity leave only two weeks ago and was currently holding a banana in one hand and a spreadsheet printout in the other like she might weaponize either.

I suddenly realized that theory is okay but practical experience is more powerful so I invited all the ladies who experienced motherhood in my office to get a glimpse of their own experiences.

I cleared my throat and gave them what I hoped was a warm, father-in-progress smile. "Thank you for being here. I really appreciate it. I, uh, know this isn't a typical meeting."

They stared at me like I might be about to pitch a new health plan or cancel lunch breaks.

"I called this session," I continued, trying to sound both sincere and not wildly unprepared, "because I'm about to be a father. And while I've done all the usual things — read books, watched videos, subscribed to parenting newsletters — I realized something; theory is great. But experience is... better."

There was a collective softening in the room. Some smiles. A couple of gentle nods.

"I wanted to learn from the actual experts. You. What worked for you? Not just after birth—but during pregnancy. Fetal education, bonding, preparation... anything you did that seemed to help, shape, or soothe."

There was a pause. Then, surprisingly, they started talking.

First, Amaya from HR raised her hand like we were in a very polite classroom.

"I used to read out loud every night," she said. "Not baby books. I just read whatever I was reading—mysteries, essays, even work emails. I figured if he heard my voice regularly, he'd recognize it when he was born."

"And did it work?" I asked, genuinely intrigued.

She smiled. "Oh yeah. First time I held him and spoke, he turned his head like I was a walking home beacon. Even the nurses noticed."

I nodded slowly. Voice imprinting. Predictable, repeatable. Data-worthy.

Then Selina, one of our top UX designers, chimed in. "I played classical music. Not just Mozart—the usual stuff—but also a lot of lo-fi instrumental playlists. Morning and night. I don't know if it made him smarter, but he sleeps through thunderstorms now. And he's never once cried in the car."

I blinked. We need that kind of emotional stability in the Zurich office.

Another voice joined in. Tina, from Compliance, leaned forward. "I kept a pregnancy journal. Not like a diary. Just... notes. Stuff I'd want to tell my daughter someday. Things about the world, about our family, small jokes. Sometimes I read it out loud before bed."

She looked almost shy as she added, "She's four now and loves hearing about when 'she was still a tummy alien.'"

I smiled, more touched than I expected. "That's actually... really beautiful."

It was Marla from Finance who finally delivered the advice that knocked me off balance.

"I treated the baby like a tiny co-worker," she said with a shrug. "Talked to her through the day. Explained what I was doing. 'We're submitting the quarterly report now. Look at that variance. Wild, right?'—stuff like that."

"Wait," I said, raising a brow. "You gave your fetus briefings?"

"Absolutely," she said. "By the time she was born, I swear she could recognize Excel sounds."

The room laughed. So did I — kind of. Internally, I was panicking just a little.

Was I supposed to do that? Is it too late to start training the fetus on software navigation?

Owen, who stood at the back holding a notepad like a nervous intern instead of my assistant, gave me a knowing side-eye. I ignored him.

More advice followed. Some practical;

"Keep a calm environment. Babies hear tension."

"Hydrate. Not just you—your wife. Hydrated moms make more patient babies."

"Start routines early. Even before birth. Same lullaby every night helps later."

Some... less practical advices also flowed in -

"Talk to your belly like it's your boss."

"Rub the belly clockwise. Not counter clockwise. Don't ask, just trust."

"Don't let anyone with weird vibes touch your wife. Babies sense that."

Through it all, I took mental notes like a desperate med student before finals.

The room slowly turned from awkward to warm, the conversation flowing freely. I sat down at some point, elbows on knees, genuinely absorbing every word like it was the missing chapter from Harvard Business Review's Guide to Fetal Negotiation.

So, this is what real experience sounds like, I thought.

Not the abstract, sensational certainty of books. Not charts about cognitive growth curves. Just lived wisdom, shared like a secret language.

When the discussion began to wind down, I looked around at all of them—these brilliant, exhausted, experienced, hilarious women—and stood again, hands folded.

"Thank you. I really mean it. This was... probably the most useful meeting I've had in weeks."

"Even more than the Zurich neurotech call?" Owen muttered.

"Especially that," I said without missing a beat.

As they left, one by one, I made a mental note to email each of them a handwritten thank you. Maybe even bump their bonuses. Emotional intelligence counts as KPIs now, right?

When the room was nearly empty, I turned to Owen.

"Don't worry, when you – I mean your future wife gets pregnant, I will give you all experiences briefing."

With that, I skipped out of the meeting room in light steps.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Hello Sweeties,

Next chapter is here. Enjoy!

What do you think about the chapter? Good?

Idris is working so hard to raise his future baby. Will it turn out to be as per his efforts?

Will Idris's efforts win or Zephyra's heritage?

Will Zephyra also put in efforts to raise her future baby into something of her likes?

Please shower me with votes and comments.

Share my books with your friends.

Lots of Love

Lady Prim