It was supposed to be a joyful moment—Jacee’s first day home. Swaddled in a soft blue blanket, he looked like a tiny angel. But that angel had lungs. And from the moment they stepped through the front door, the air was pierced with shrill, nonstop cries. Cry! Cry! Cry! Newborn Jacee was not holding back.
Joyce, his mother, had imagined sweet coos, sleepy cuddles, and maybe a few gentle whimpers. But this? This was war. She rocked him, sang lullabies, changed diapers, checked for gas—nothing worked. The crying got louder, angrier, almost like tiny Jacee was scolding the entire world for bringing him out of the womb. Joyce’s face twisted with frustration. Her sleep-deprived eyes darted between the clock and the baby monitor. No help, no rest, just Jacee’s booming, determined voice.
“I have never seen a baby this dramatic,” she muttered, pacing the floor, bouncing Jacee in her arms like a human trampoline. “What do you WANT?”
Neighbors probably thought there was a fire. The cat hid under the bed. Joyce, known among friends for her calm demeanor, snapped, her voice rising over Jacee’s, “Enough already!” Then, silence. For two seconds.
And then—Cry! Cry! Cry!
It was the first time anyone had seen Joyce lose her temper. She wasn’t angry at Jacee, not really. It was exhaustion, confusion, and the overwhelming wave of new motherhood crashing down all at once.
Eventually, Jacee wore himself out and drifted off to sleep, his cheeks tear-streaked but peaceful. Joyce sat beside him, eyes watery, heart aching with love and fatigue.
She whispered, “We’ll figure this out, little one. Together.”
And in the hush that followed, both mother and child finally breathed.
