Baby Mason lay on the soft blanket, his tiny hands pushing angrily at the pacifier his mom offered. He didn’t want it—he wanted his warm formula milk, and he wanted it now. His little face scrunched into a deep pout, frustration building until it burst into loud, impatient cries that echoed through the room. (66)
He tossed his head from side to side, refusing every attempt to calm him. The pacifier slipped onto the floor, but Mason didn’t even look at it. He was too focused on the doorway, watching desperately for the moment his mom would return with the bottle. His tiny feet kicked rapidly, as if urging time to move faster. But for a hungry newborn, even seconds felt like forever.
His cries turned softer, then louder again, full of impatience and helplessness. Mason didn’t understand why the milk wasn’t already in his mouth. He only understood the aching emptiness in his belly and the deep need for comfort. Every sound in the house made him pause—hoping it was the footsteps he wanted—but when it wasn’t, he whimpered again, rubbing his eyes with clenched fists.
Finally, his mom appeared with the warm bottle in her hands. Mason froze for a second, eyes widening with pure relief. His legs stopped kicking, replaced by soft, desperate sobs. He reached out with trembling hands, urging her to hurry. As soon as the bottle touched his lips, he latched instantly, drinking fast, almost too fast, his tiny throat working eagerly with every swallow.
Mom stroked his head gently, whispering that she was right here and he was safe. Slowly, Mason’s angry cries faded, replaced by calm breaths and heavy eyelids. With a full belly and warm arms around him, he finally relaxed—his impatient morning ending in peaceful comfort.
