Little Libe lay on the floor, tiny hands spread wide, crying in sharp waves while Mom stayed busy nearby. The room echoed with his tantrum, each cry louder than the last, as if volume alone could pull her back instantly. His legs kicked, heels thumping the mat, face turning red with frustration and need.
Mom glanced over, heart tugging, but her hands were full. She spoke gently, telling Libe she saw him, that she would come soon. Libe didn’t understand time or waiting. All he knew was that Mom was not holding him now, and that felt unbearable.
He rolled onto his side, sobbing, then onto his back again, crying even harder. Tears slid into his ears, his chest rising and falling too fast. The world felt unfair, loud, and lonely from the floor. He reached upward, fingers opening and closing, begging without words.
Mom finished what she was doing as calmly as she could, fighting the urge to rush. She knew this moment mattered. She was teaching him that being busy didn’t mean being gone. Still, every cry cut deep.
When she finally knelt beside him, Libe’s cries cracked. He stared up at her through wet lashes, unsure if relief or anger should come first. Mom touched his belly softly, grounding him. His breathing stuttered, then slowed.
She lifted him gently, holding him close. His tantrum melted into quiet whimpers against her shoulder. The floor no longer mattered. The noise faded. Safety returned.
Later, Libe played calmly nearby while Mom worked again. This time, he glanced up, reassured by her presence. The tantrum had passed, but the lesson remained.
For little Libe, crying wasn’t bad behavior. It was communication. And for Mom, patience was the bridge between fear and comfort, built through love and consistency every single day together
