Newborn Romeo had no words, but his body spoke loudly. The moment Mom brought him close to the water, his tiny hands lifted defensively. His fingers trembled, then scratched softly at his own face, not from anger, but from fear and confusion. Bathing time felt strange, cold, and overwhelming to such a new, fragile life.
Romeo’s eyes widened, dark and glossy. He turned his head away, denying the moment with every small movement. His breathing became uneven, his lips quivered, and a soft cry escaped his throat. He didn’t understand why he was being undressed, why the air felt cooler, why the familiar warmth of being wrapped was gone.
As water trickled nearby, Romeo scratched again, a nervous habit, a way to release stress. His skin was sensitive, his emotions raw. Mom noticed immediately. Her heart tightened with guilt. She hadn’t meant to rush. She hadn’t meant to scare him.
She paused.
Mom held Romeo closer, pressing him gently against her chest. She spoke in the softest voice, slow and rhythmic, letting him feel her breathing. Romeo’s scratching slowed, though his hands still hovered near his face, ready to defend himself.
The bath continued carefully. Water touched him only a little at a time. Mom’s hand supported his head, steady and protective. Romeo whimpered, then fell quiet, watching, learning. His fear didn’t vanish, but it softened.
Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, mixing with warm water. Mom kissed his forehead again and again, promising safety without words. Slowly, Romeo relaxed. His hands dropped. His body leaned into her.
When the bath ended, Mom wrapped him in a warm towel, holding him tightly. Romeo sighed deeply, exhausted but safe. His scratches stopped. His cries faded.
That day, Romeo learned that even scary moments can pass gently. And Mom learned that love means slowing down, listening, and never forcing a fragile heart before it is ready.
