Mason sat upright, eyes sharp and restless, his tiny body full of tension. A pacifier was gently offered to him, but he knew it wasn’t what he wanted. He pushed it away immediately, turning his head with clear refusal. His lips trembled, and a low frustrated sound came from his throat. Mason wasn’t confused. He was waiting for his formula milk, and nothing else would replace it. (63)
The longer he waited, the more impatient he became. His legs kicked lightly, then harder. His hands opened and closed again and again, reaching toward the empty space where the bottle should be. When the pacifier touched his mouth a second time, he frowned deeply and spat it out, clearly offended. This was not comfort. This was delay.
Mason’s cries grew louder, sharper, filled with urgency. His face turned red, brows pulled together in anger. He leaned forward, searching, demanding. Hunger made him emotional, and waiting felt unfair. Every second stretched too long for his small stomach and big feelings.
Mom worked quickly, preparing the formula while speaking softly to calm him. Mason didn’t stop crying. He watched her every move closely, eyes locked on the bottle. The sound of shaking milk made him cry even harder, knowing it was almost time but not yet.
Finally, the bottle arrived. The moment the nipple touched his lips, Mason stopped crying instantly. He latched on eagerly, drinking fast, as if afraid it might disappear again. His body relaxed, anger melting away with each swallow. The pacifier was forgotten completely.
Soon, only quiet drinking sounds filled the room. Mason’s eyes softened, blinking slowly as hunger faded. After finishing, he rested calmly, satisfied and peaceful. His impatience was never about being naughty. It was about knowing exactly what he needed. And once that need was met, calm returned just as quickly as the storm had come.
