Loco’s face was scrunched tight, lips trembling, anger mixing with hunger in his tiny chest. He cried loudly, turning his head away as if to protest the world. His fists clenched, feet kicking in short bursts. To Loco, waiting felt unfair, and frustration spilled out in sharp cries meant only for mom.
Mom didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t rush. She opened her arms slowly and pulled Loco close, wrapping him in warmth. Her hug was firm and gentle, telling him without words that he was safe. Loco kept crying at first, stiff against her chest, still angry, still hungry, still overwhelmed by feelings too big for his small body.
She rocked him back and forth, breathing steadily so he could feel her calm. Her cheek rested against his head. Loco’s cries softened into broken sobs. His body stopped fighting. He listened to her heartbeat, familiar and steady, like a promise that nothing bad was happening.
Mom lifted the bottle carefully, letting Loco see it. Milk waited, warm and ready. She didn’t scold him for being angry. She didn’t tease. She simply fed him. When the bottle touched his lips, Loco latched on instantly. The anger vanished in one breath. His eyes fluttered as he drank fast, then slower, then slower still.
Milk filled his belly, but the hug filled something deeper. His hands relaxed, resting against mom’s arm. His breathing evened out. Each swallow replaced frustration with comfort, fear with trust.
Mom kept holding him even after the bottle emptied. She wiped his mouth, kissed his head, and stayed still so he could rest. Loco sighed softly, no longer angry, no longer crying. Just a baby who needed reassurance.
In that quiet moment, Loco learned something important. Being angry didn’t make love disappear. Hunger didn’t break bonds. And mom’s arms were always the safest place to calm his storm.
Wrapped in warmth, fed with patience, Loco drifted into peace, knowing tomorrow—when emotions rise again—love will still be waiting.
