Mom held baby Ricky gently as he whimpered softly, his small body already tired from the day. Tiny wounds marked his fragile skin, reminders of how vulnerable he was. Ricky sensed something was coming and clung to Mom’s finger, eyes wide and uncertain. The room was quiet except for his uneven breathing and Mom’s calm voice whispering reassurance.
When the cool Betadine touched his wounds, Ricky cried out sharply. His body trembled, legs kicking weakly as pain surprised him. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and his mouth opened in a desperate scream. Mom’s heart ached, but her hands stayed steady. She knew this moment of pain meant protection, meant healing, meant survival.
She cleaned each wound carefully, never rushing, blowing softly to comfort him. Ricky cried again, louder this time, face red and wet with tears. Mom leaned closer, pressing her forehead to his, telling him he was strong, that she was there, that he was safe. Her words wrapped around him even when the sting would not stop.
Slowly, the cleaning finished. Ricky’s cries faded into broken sobs, his body exhausted from fear and pain. Mom wiped his tears and kissed his head again and again. She lifted the warm milk bottle, letting him see it. Ricky’s eyes followed weakly, hope replacing panic.
The nipple touched his lips, and instinct took over. He drank eagerly, still shaking, but calmer now. With every swallow, his body relaxed. Pain gave way to comfort. His breathing slowed. His tiny hand wrapped around Mom’s finger, holding tight.
Mom watched him drink, relief filling her chest. She had hurt him to help him, and that truth was heavy. When the bottle emptied, Ricky rested against her, milk-drunk and sleepy.
The wounds were treated. Hunger was gone. In her arms, Ricky felt safe again. Healing had begun, carried by patience, courage, and a love strong enough to endure his tears.
