Little Luca sat on the edge of his soft basket, legs kicking furiously and face scrunched up in frustration. His tiny voice echoed through the room in sharp, demanding cries. He was angry—very angry.
Across the room, Mom was busy preparing his milk bottle, carefully measuring the warm water and gently mixing the powder. She worked quickly but calmly, knowing Luca’s cries were only getting louder by the second.
But to tiny Luca, it felt like a lifetime. His tummy rumbled with hunger, and he didn’t understand why Mom wasn’t rushing to scoop him up.
“Eeeek! Eeeek!” he cried, his hands waving in the air as if to say, “Hurry up, Mom!”
His tiny body trembled with impatience. He even threw his pacifier to the side, as if protesting the wait. When Mom looked over with a soft smile, he only got louder, his little eyes filled with baby rage.
Finally, bottle in hand, Mom rushed to him. “Here, here, baby. I got it,” she cooed, kneeling beside him and gently lifting him into her arms.
The moment the bottle touched his lips, silence fell. His eyes closed halfway, the anger melting away into comfort. He drank hungrily, making soft suckling sounds as his little belly began to fill.
Mom chuckled softly. “Oh Luca, such a big tantrum for one tiny tummy.”
She cradled him gently, rocking him while he drank, his earlier cries now replaced by little satisfied gulps. When he finished, he let out a tiny burp, looked up at her, and blinked slowly—no longer angry, just grateful.
