Disclaimer: I do not own Smallville or these characters.

Author's Note: It's very difficult for the Kents to raise a child who doesn't speak the language? Just a bunch of random fluff pieces about Jonathan, Martha, and their newly adopted son. The purpose of this is purely baby Clark fluff.

Every once in a while, Clark wondered into his parents' bedroom in the middle of the night, tagging along Jonathan's old childhood teddy bear. Sometimes he was crying; Jonathan and Martha guessed he had had a nightmare. Sometimes, he looked cranky, and his parents guessed it was because he simply couldn't get to sleep. A few times, he patted his bottom, and Jonathan and Martha knew that he wet his Pull-Ups.

Tonight was one of those nights that Clark was cranky from lack of sleep. Martha was jerked awake by a giant puffball thrown in her face.

"Oww! Jonathan, what the—Clark, honey?" Martha's eyes adjusted to the darkness, just in time to see her tiny toddler settling himself into the master bed between his parents. The giant puffball thrown in her face had been Clark's teddy bear.

"I don't think he can sleep, Martha," Jonathan mumbled from the other side of the bed. He had been asleep, too.

"It's okay, sweetie. You just relax and lie in bed with Mommy and Daddy," Martha soothed her son, reaching out to run her hand through his hair in the dark. "You'll be asleep in no time."

"This is our bed, Clark. Mommy and I sleep," Jonathan emphasized.

"See," came a tiny coo from their toddler son.

"Sleep," Jonathan tried again.

"Slee!"

"Almost there, Clark! One more letter! Sleep."

"Slee!"

Martha felt herself getting woozy with fatigue. "We can do this in the morning, Jonathan," she yawned. Henry Higgins went on with speech lessons all night, but Henry Higgins didn't have a toddler-age son, she thought, too tired to laugh to herself.

"Good night, Clark," came Jonathan's voice.

"Niiiii."

Clark was too little to do any farm chores. One time, Jonathan had allowed his son to harvest tomatoes—there was nothing about picking tomatoes and placing them into a basket that was too hard to handle—but for some reason, Clark enjoyed squeezing the tomatoes until there wasn't any juice left in them. At first, Martha thought this was funny, but then she got tired of washing tomato juice out of Clark's clothes—and Jonathan got tired of losing tomatoes. Clark was rendered choreless until he was a bit older.

The little one did, however, enjoy spending time outside. Jonathan had taken an old tire tractor, turned it on its side, placed a slab of wood inside of it, and filled it with sand. Instant sandbox. Martha had gone through Jonathan's childhood things in the attic until she found an old pail and shovel, and had placed them inside the sandbox for Clark. As Jonathan was firing up the tractor inside the barn to plow a few acres, Martha was kneeling beside the sandbox with her new son.

"Look, sweetie, this is your shovel. And this is your pail. That's a pretty easy word. Can you say 'pail?'"

Clark was quiet. He just stared at his mother.

"Come on, sweetie!" Martha encouraged him. "You can say 'eat,' and 'sleep,' and 'night'…well, almost. Can you say 'pail?'"

Clark simply made a sound that sounded like, "Mmmmm." He uncomfortably hugged his shovel to his chest.

"What's wrong, Clark, honey?" Martha asked worriedly.

Clark's eyes filled with tears, and the little one slowly began to cry.

"Clark!" Martha exclaimed worriedly. She picked her son up out of the sandbox and squeezed him tight. "What's wrong? Mommy didn't see you get hurt!"

Clark's arms were clutched around his mother's neck, and he was crying onto Martha's shoulder. Martha took a tissue out of her pocket and dried her son's tears. "Clark, honey, what's wrong? Tell Mommy what's wrong!"

But of course Clark did not reply, not being able to understand his mother.

He doesn't usually cry when he wet himself, and he just ate his breakfast. He can't be hungry, Martha thought, continuing to wipe her son's tears. He loves his sandbox! Maybe he saw something that scared him. Maybe he saw a spider, or something.

Martha set Clark down on the ground for a moment and handed him the tissue so he could wipe his eyes. She quietly climbed inside of her son's sandbox to look for anything that may have scared or hurt him. There were no sharp twigs, no spiders or insects, nothing…except for a green piece of mineral rock half-buried by a pile of sand in the corner.

But Clark couldn't be afraid of a piece of mineral rock…could he?