Before the baby woke, everything was already being prepared.
The caregiver moved quietly in the early morning light, careful not to make sudden sounds. The forest was still cool, wrapped in mist, and the baby monkey slept curled tightly on a soft cloth. His breathing was slow and shallow, his tiny fingers twitching in dreams.
He had cried enough already.
She checked the milk first. Not too hot. Not too cold. She tested it again, just to be sure. A baby that small could not handle mistakes. She set it aside carefully, keeping it warm.
Next, she prepared the sleeping place. Leaves were arranged to block the wind. The cloth was smoothed flat, free of sharp twigs. She ran her hand over it again, making sure nothing would scratch his delicate skin.
The baby stirred.
She froze, watching him closely. His face tightened for a moment, as if he might cry. She leaned closer, whispering soft sounds, letting him smell her presence. Slowly, his face relaxed again.
She continued preparing.
Clean water came next. She dipped her fingers in and squeezed out excess drops, ready to clean his mouth and eyes when he woke. Dried milk from earlier feedings could irritate him if left too long. She had learned that the hard way.
Time passed quietly.
When the baby finally opened his eyes, he looked confused. His mouth opened slightly, and a soft whimper escaped. Hunger was waking with him.
She was ready.
She lifted him gently, supporting his head and neck. His body felt warmer today—stronger. She took that as a good sign. The baby cried once, then paused when he felt her arms around him.
She brought the milk close.
The baby latched on immediately, drinking with small, eager movements. Not frantic this time. Prepared feeding meant less fear. She watched carefully, adjusting his position, wiping away spilled drops with patient fingers.
She did not rush him.
While he drank, she prepared the next steps in her mind. After feeding, he would need to be cleaned. After cleaning, he would need warmth. After warmth, rest.
Everything had a place.
When he finished, she held him upright, gently rubbing his back until a small burp escaped. The baby blinked slowly, eyes heavy, milk calming his tiny body.
She cleaned his face carefully, wiping the corners of his mouth, his chin, his eyes. He did not resist. He trusted her now.
Outside, the forest began to wake. Birds called. Light filtered through the trees. Still, her focus stayed on the baby.
She wrapped him securely and prepared a safe spot for him to sleep again. Before laying him down, she checked his fingers, his toes, his belly. No cold. No tightness. No signs of pain.
Satisfied, she placed him down gently.
The baby made a soft sound, then settled, his body relaxing completely. His hand twitched, then rested.
She sat beside him.
Prepared not just with milk and cloth—but with patience. With time. With attention.
Caring for a baby was not one action.
It was many small preparations done again and again, quietly, without praise.
As the baby slept peacefully, she stayed nearby, ready to prepare again when he needed her.
Because for a baby this small, being prepared meant survival.
And for the caregiver, it meant love in action.
