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The first day they started Philippa on solid food was the day that Clint lost all faith in the world.
The baby was sitting up on her blanket in the middle of the living room, cooing at toys as she tried to grab them, when a horrible stench wafted over to the sofa, where Natasha and Clint looked up from their respective books in alarm.
"Jesus Christ, what is that smell?" Clint exclaimed, holding his sleeve over his nose.
"Must be that sweet potato puree," Natasha replied, taking very shallow breaths.
"God, you need to change her."
As soon as it came out of his mouth, Clint watched her face go from vaguely disgusted to thoroughly disgusted with him.
"Nope," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Mondays are your diaper days."
He tried to think of arguments that would get him out of this particular diaper. He changed Phil last, but they had an agreement that Mondays were his and Fridays were hers, and they switched off the rest of the week. Maybe he could feign a stomach bug, but Natasha would see right through that. He could never lie well enough to fool her.
"Dammit," he muttered, pushing himself up off the couch.
Natasha lit a candle before settling back in with her book, a smirk on her face.
"Oh god!" Clint moaned in the other room, and she smirked a little harder.
She wondered when he would realize that it was Tuesday.