Donald Duck had always had a temper. It was one of his core personality traits; part of his nature. Grandma Duck had always said that he'd hatched "red-faced and spitting fire," and though Donald couldn't be sure how much of that was literal and how much was metaphor, his most vivid memories from when he was a duckling fit that description almost exactly. He remembered getting angry over a lot of things-being hungry, being tired, needing a diaper change, not being understood (which, unfortunately for him, was very often the case-thankfully, Della was usually there to interpret), not getting his way, people looking at him funny-come to think about it, Donald spent more of his childhood angry than not.

His mom had tried taking him to some sort of therapy to get his temper under control, but that ended fairly quickly due to her own temper. Still, they'd both learned some coping mechanisms to keep a temper under control, and they even tried to use them sometimes, but it's hard to learn to keep your temper under control when the person trying to help you is often just as angry as you are. Grandma Duck had helped a little more, once Donald and Della went to live with her, but her method of dealing with his temper was usually to send him outside to do some chores to blow off steam. That was great when you lived on a farm, but it didn't translate very well to non-farm life, although Donald did sometimes find himself cleaning up the houseboat when he got angry. Somehow, it didn't give him quite the same satisfaction as scaring the feathers off of all the chickens as he gathered their eggs.

Of course, there had been times when Donald's temper had come in handy. Like when that creep from school wouldn't stop asking Della out, or when a group of kids started throwing stuff at Cousin Fethry on his way home from school because he was "weird." But mostly, it had just gotten him into trouble.

For most of his life, Donald had had Della to help calm him down. She was the only one who could do so reliably, and she usually didn't get mad or upset back at him when he snapped at her (which made it all the more worse when she did). So when Donald got the news that Della was gone and his three nephews were thrust into his arms to take care of for at least the next eighteen years?

He was terrified.

Having to take care of three tiny ducklings when he could barely take care of himself was scary enough. But add in his temper? What if they were ever on the receiving end of it?

The first thing Donald did when it looked like Della wasn't coming back and he'd be the one to take care of the boys was frantically start reading parenting books. They all had a page or two devoted to how important it was to never shake a baby ever. And Donald certainly never planned to shake his nephews, but what if he lost his temper and lost control and shook them anyway? Fighting was usually his first response to getting angry, after all. Well, after yelling. But his nephews could die. He could be a nephew murderer. Donald could see the headlines clear as day-DUCKBURG RESIDENT MURDERS NEPHEWS IN FIT OF ANGER. FORMER ADVENTURER MURDERS SONS OF LATE SISTER. LOCAL DUCK LOSES TEMPER, THREE BOYS LOSE LIVES. Why, oh, why did Della have to leave him with three fragile, tiny babies when he couldn't even trust himself?

(Of course, if Donald had stopped to think for a moment, he never entirely lost control when he lost his temper, never shook anyone, never tried to fight a baby or anyone else significantly smaller than him…)

These thoughts had constantly flitted through Donald's head when he was first thrust into sudden parenthood, vying for space amongst such thoughts as "how do I take care of three babies 100% of the time?" and "I've been trying to burp Louie for about three hours now why won't he burp I am the worst father-uncle in the WORLD" and "what if I accidentally throw the babies overboard or drop them on their heads who thought it was ok to trust me with BABIES" and incomprehensible screaming.

Now, though, most of these thoughts had faded into the background. Donald had learned how to take care of babies, and then toddlers, and then children, and soon he would learn how to take care of teenagers. No one had been thrown overboard or dropped on their heads, and no one had been shaken. Sure, he'd gotten mad at the kids here and there, but never enough to come close to harming them, or even bring out his fighting fists. But the worry never quite left him…

What if he lost his temper on his nephews?

It was in his nature, after all.