*Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles franchise.

*Story Summary: An unexpected visitor in the middle of the night reminds Master Splinter just how fortunate he truly is.

*Author's Notes: I'm super excited to share this new 'TMNT Shell Shot' with everyone. This one takes place after the episode 'Lone Rat and Cubs.' It's my first official turtle tots story and it's chock-full of ooey-gooey cuteness. You have been warned. XD

I want to thank LittleMiss Icequeen for the wonderful story suggestions. I combined three of her 'Shell Shot' requests (a turtle tots story, a story where all four brothers are sick, and a story from Master Splinter's POV) into this short one-shot. I'm really hoping everyone enjoys how the story turned out.

Thank you very, very much to my beta reader, Joanne N. Grey, and my creative consultant, Captain Vegeta. You two are the best buddies a girl could ask for. I love you both, lots and lots and lots.

Last, but certainly not least, thanks so much to my readers. This story is dedicated to each and every one of you, for you are all such blessings to me. I also want to dedicate this one to all the dads out there celebrating Father's Day. You guys rock!

Okay, on with the story... ;) CJ

Blessings

Being the single father of four growing boys can be quite challenging at times. As a grand master in the art of Ninjutsu, I am rather ashamed to admit there are some days I can hardly keep up with my little ones. Today was definitely one of those days. Exhaustion has taken its toll on my weary bones and I am in desperate need of some sleep. Marking my page in the novel I have futilely been attempting to read for the past half hour or so, I set the book down on the crate beside my bed. Just as I am about to turn in for the night, a shadow slowly creeps its way inside the doorway, followed by a pair of clumsy, oversized feet, far too big for the small child they carry.

Big, innocent, blue eyes stare up at me, wider than they should be considering the delicate hour.

"Michelangelo, it is much too late for you to be wandering about the lair. Why are you not in bed?"

What my youngest child does not realize is that I am currently thanking my lucky stars that I just so happened to stray from my normal schedule tonight. This is ordinarily the time I sneak up to the surface to forage for food and miscellaneous supplies. It is not the safest practice to leave the children alone; I am well aware of this. But seeing as how it is dangerous for any of us to venture topside during daytime hours, I have no other choice but to temporarily leave the boys unsupervised while they are fast asleep.

Tonight, however, I chose to stay home. A decision I should obviously be eternally grateful for, because who knows what kind of mischief my youngest boy could have gotten into had I been out scavenging.

Clinging tightly to a tattered teddy bear that accompanies him everywhere he goes, Michelangelo moves across the room in short, graceless strides. "Couldn' sweep. Ow-nie keeps snowing too wowd."

Of my four boys, Michelangelo has always been the most talkative one by far and away, but he continues to struggle with sounding out certain consonants, despite my best efforts to help him. If he was a human child, I am sure his speech impediment could easily be corrected by a professional of some sort. As it is, I am forced to try to translate his somewhat peculiar language. I honestly believe I have gotten quite good at it, if I do say so myself.

"I see. And how are you feeling, my son?"

Michelangelo blinks at me several times before a huge smile lights up his round, freckled face as well as my heavy heart. "Bettoh. My nose isn' weaking or bwhoa-ing bubbas no mow."

"I am most pleased to hear this. But even though you are feeling better, Michelangelo, it is still very important that you get plenty of rest."

"When-oh my bwahdohs get bettoh, papa?"

Now, it is my turn to smile and I affectionately pat the top of Michelangelo's bald head for his thoughtfulness.

The past few days, the boys have been fighting what I believe to be a stubborn virus of some sort. Michelangelo was the first to come down with the ailment, followed by Leonardo, then Donatello, and finally, Raphael. While Michelangelo appears to be on the mend at this point, his three brothers continue to exhibit symptoms of the virus, including runny noses, sore throats, chest congestion, and in Donatello's case, a low-grade fever. They have been quite miserable, and as a result, I have basically been run ragged, trying to tend to their needs.

"Soon, Michelangelo. Soon. Until then, we must try to keep them comfortable and make sure they, too, get plenty of rest."

I crouch down and scoop Michelangelo up into my arms, cradling him against my chest as though he is still an infant. He immediately snuggles up to me and lets out a small sigh of content. Something his older brothers no longer do when I pick them up. They are apparently already 'too big' for such things. That is why I must enjoy my youngest child's generous affections while they last.

It is true what they say about children growing up too fast. But it is extraordinarily precious and rewarding to watch them do so.

I only wish I would have been given the chance to experience this with my Miwa…

No sooner do I feel tears start to prick my eyes than I hear a tiny voice call out to me, snapping me out of my somber thoughts.

"Papa?"

"Yes, my son?"

"Can we check on Waphie and Wee-oh befoh bed?"

I nod my consent and press a finger to my lips to wordlessly 'shush' my youngest. Michelangelo nods in return and proudly runs his pinched fingers across his mouth in a 'zipper' gesture. Confident my son understands the importance of remaining quiet, I head towards the boys' bedrooms, making sure to keep my footfalls completely silent.

When we first made our home here in this abandoned subway station, hidden deep underneath the crowded streets of New York City, the boys slept in the same room as I did. But as they grew bigger and less dependent on my constant presence, I decided it was necessary to adjust our sleeping arrangements to better suit our needs. I paired the children up, with my two oldest boys sharing one room and my two youngest sharing another. Although, as of late, it has become increasingly evident that Leonardo and Raphael are not a good match. The two of them seem to have a difficult time getting along, no matter how much I scold them for their undesirable behavior.

It may soon be time to give each boy their own 'space.'

But I digress…

Fōkasu, Yoshi. Fōkasu.

Like a ghost, I slip through the door of my two eldest boys' room and peer inside. My nostrils are instantly greeted by the distinct and pleasant scent of lavender and eucalyptus. Natural remedies I utilized, hoping they might help soothe the children to sleep.

It appears to be working, for I can hear the sound of both boys softly snoring in their beds.

As to be expected, Raphael's covers look as though they have been run through the wringer, twisted into a disheveled pile at his feet. Even in his slumber, my second oldest boy shows outward signs of aggression. The grimace currently etched on his face attests to that.

Leonardo, on the other hand, is still neatly tucked in, resting in what looks to be the same position I left him in when I settled him down for the night. His expression is serene with sleep and his breathing seems to have significantly improved from earlier in the evening. This is a good sign. Perhaps it means that the worst of the illness has come to pass and the boys are now on the road to recovery.

What a relief that would be…

Afraid of lingering too long, I slowly back through the doorway with Michelangelo in tow. Once outside of the bedroom, I set my youngest son down and point towards the room he and Donatello occupy before giving him another 'shush' for good measure. Michelangelo oftentimes requires additional reminding.

The boy's heart is always in the right place; his head is another story.

Following Michelangelo inside his bedroom, my eyes immediately fall upon the sleeping form of my second youngest child and I cannot help but to frown. The wheeze in each breath Donatello takes tells me his lungs are still clogged by whatever illness continues to plague him. Regret fills my entire being as I stand here wishing I could provide a better life for all of them. The sewers are most certainly not an appropriate place to raise small children, but I must remember that true strength comes from one's ability to adapt to the hand they have been dealt.

Fate can be both cruel and kind at the same time. The key is to recognize the blessings from the curses and hold onto those blessings for dear life.

I feel a soft tug on my kimoto and peer down to lock eyes with my youngest son's once again. His mouth turns down into a slight frown – perhaps meant to mimic my own – but the sad expression only lasts a few fleeting seconds before he excitedly asks, "Is Ow-nie bettow yet?"

"I am afraid your brother is still not feeling well, my son." My voice is whisper soft, so as not to rouse poor Donatello.

"But he's sweeping. How can you taoh?"

"You see how red his cheeks are? It means he is most likely running a temperature."

"Wha's a tem – a tempohshoh?"

If there is one thing that raising the boys has taught me, it is that actions oftentimes speak far louder than words.

"Here. Place your hand on Donatello's forehead. Make sure to be gentle. We do not want to wake him."

Michelangelo lifts a small, three-fingered hand up and ever-so-carefully rests it across Donatello's forehead, clearly concerned about the potential of disturbing his brother's slumber. My second youngest son shifts restlessly in his sleep, but settles down after just a few moments and even starts to lean into his little brother's tender touch.

"What do you feel, my son?"

"I's wa'm."

"Now, feel my forehead." I bend down to give Michelangelo easier access. His eyes twinkle like freshly fallen snow as he presses his palm to my brow, eager to follow my instructions.

"I's wa'm, too. Papa sick?"

My features automatically soften when I see the worry suddenly written across Michelangelo's face. He takes a fearful step backwards, like he is unsure what to make of this new information, but I am quick to offer him solace.

"No, little one. I am not sick. I was only trying to show you that your brother has a fever."

"Wha's a fevoh?"

"A fever. It means that his body temperature is unusually high."

"Why?"

I pull my lips into a tired smile, knowing the routine all too well. It is not unusual for my boys to relentlessly interrogate me for further information, with Donatello and Michelangelo generally being the most relentless about it. But whereas Donatello asks questions because he is curious by nature and keen to learn more about the world around him, Michelangelo questions everything because he seems to crave attention, and sometimes, I believe he just likes to hear the sound of his own voice.

"You and your brothers have what is known as a cold."

"But you said Ow-nie have a fevoh."

My lips curl up into a droll, little smirk when it occurs to me that I have essentially just been 'one-upped' by a toddler.

"Yes, I did say that. But a cold is not named so because of one's temperature."

I stop mid-explanation to take a prolonged moment to contemplate the remainder of my response. Explaining this concept to my young son will be no simple task.

"Sometimes, the English language can be rather… confusing. There are many words that sound the same, and in some cases, are even spelled the same, but they mean completely different things. For example, the word 'cold' can refer to both a cool temperature as well as an illness. Do you understand what I am saying?"

The vacant expression on Michelangelo's face serves as my answer.

"Perhaps this conversation would be better left until morning."

"No! No, I get it, papa. Maybe we jus' need to come up wif ow own names for fings."

"Maybe. But right now, it is time for you to go to bed, my son."

Scrunching his face up for a moment, Michelangelo appears to be deep in thought. He then hurriedly approaches his older brother's bed and pulls the heavy blanket up higher so that all of Donatello is covered except for his head. Donatello seems to relax at this and unconsciously hums his appreciation as he curls up under his comforter. The movement makes his snoring diminish into nothing more than a quiet whistle. A peaceful sound that should help lull my youngest to sleep.

"Nigh-nigh, Ow-nie."

Clearly satisfied with his efforts, Michelangelo spins on his heels and climbs up into his own bed with relative ease. And to think, just a few weeks ago, he needed assistance with this feat.

They grow up too fast, indeed.

As Michelangelo sinks into his mattress and lovingly nuzzles his stuffed bear, he peers up at me through now droopy eyelids. It is obvious that he is already dozing off when he faintly mumbles, "I wuv you, papa."

I have to pause for breath before I am able to reciprocate.

"I love you, too, little one." With that said, I plant a kiss on Michelangelo's forehead and noiselessly pad out of the room, knowing that four of the most amazing blessings I have ever been given are now sleeping soundly in their beds.

How truly fortunate I am.

The End

*Author's Notes: I'm keeping my fingers crossed that this story delivered some major 'awwwww' moments. LMK.

As always, please take a moment to favorite, follow, like, reblog, review and/or comment on 'TMNT Shell Shots' if you are enjoying these short stories and want to see more of them. The feedback means so much to me. Far more than I can say. Thank you all for reading. *hugs* CJ

*Special Note: A great big thanks to everyone who checked out the latest chapter of 'Slash's Revenge' and sent me thoughtful birthday well wishes. I appreciate it very, very, very much. ;)