Baby Alan had been waiting on his little blanket, tiny hands gripping the edges as his stomach rumbled louder and louder. He knew milk time was close—he could feel it, smell it, imagine the warm sweetness filling his belly. But today, Grandma was taking longer than usual.
At first, he waited patiently, rocking side to side, humming little baby squeaks to comfort himself. But minutes felt like hours to a hungry little monkey, and soon patience turned into frustration. His lips curled, his eyebrows lowered, and Baby Alan let out the first loud, angry yell.
“Eeeeeh! EHHH!”
He stomped his feet, pacing in tiny circles as if trying to summon Grandma with sheer anger. Every second she didn’t appear made him squeal louder. He threw his arms up dramatically, shaking them in the air as if demanding, “Where is my milk?!”
Finally, he plopped onto the floor with a loud thud, tail flicking back and forth like an offended prince. His cries became sharp and emotional—half tantrum, half heartbreak. He looked toward the doorway, expecting Grandma to rush in instantly. When she didn’t, he smacked the floor with his tiny palm, letting everyone know he was very serious about his disappointment.
Just as his cries reached their peak, Grandma hurried in with the warm bottle.
“There you are, my impatient little boy,” she said gently.
Baby Alan froze mid-tantrum, eyes widening at the sight of the milk. In a split second, his anger melted away like it had never existed. He scrambled toward her, climbing into her lap with desperate little squeaks, grabbing the bottle before she even settled down.
As the first warm sip hit his tongue, he finally relaxed, his body softening like a sleepy kitten. Grandma stroked his head lovingly.
“There you go, sweetheart,” she whispered.
“All that anger just because you were hungry.”
