The Baby Whisperer

She cried. And cried. She’d been fed, burped, changed, and swaddled.

“What’s wrong with her, is that the ‘pick-me-up’ cry?” I asked the baby whisperer.

“Yup,” Edward answered. The four of us lay in the dark, silently pleading for sleep to come.

She cried.

“Check to see if she peed.” He must’ve heard a change in her inflections.

Her diaper was saturated (again), but the second I laid a hand on her she went silent. She’s crying for mommy to love on her. I changed her and lay back down.

“Who’s good,” Ed bragged. And then she cried. The Ladies giggled.

Still she cried.

I got up again, walked back to the basinet, and she stopped. I lay back down.

Silence.

“What did you do?” the baby whisperer puzzled.

“I gave her a pacifier.”

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4 thoughts on “The Baby Whisperer

  1. I tried writing a poem about breast feeding once, it turned out bad. You did what I failed to. Though is wasn’t about breast feeding, you expressed the bond of mother and child subtly.

    Like

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