"He's amazing. Oh wow, Lonnie. Just look at him." Joyce couldn't get enough of the infant. Lonnie would just laugh, glancing up from his newspaper. Little Jonathan was six months old, and she still marveled at him on a daily basis. This was her baby. Her first one. She gave birth to this human being, and he was her's to love. The solemn child would stare intently on his mother as she cooed and doted on him, and would seldom even smile, even when tried her hardest to get him to laugh.
She wanted to make him laugh. Even if she looked ridiculous trying. She would spend hours making silly faces and talking to him in different voices. But he was just a serious child. He would watch his parents going about their day with an intent gaze, and sometimes he would frown so seriously, it looked like he was deep in contemplation. He also cried a lot.
Sometimes he would cry and cry and cry for agonizingly long periods of time, and nothing would stop him. Thankfully, this was usually when Lonnie was at work. All Joyce cared about when he cried was making sure he was okay. Lonnie, on the other hand, couldn't stand the noise. It made her anxious when he cried around Lonnie.
"What's the matter, baby?" She would ask, bouncing him in her arms and offering him a bottle, which he refused. "Are you tired? Oh... hush, it's gonna be okay. Mommy's here. Please, baby. Please calm down."
Then Lonnie would snap. He would slap down whatever he was holding and storm at the shaking, small woman, frowning like a thunderstorm. "Would you get him to shut up!?" He would shout. So, so loud. Jonathan would cry louder. Lonnie usually would leave the house to go for a drive if he didn't stop in the next minute. With him gone, Joyce would tenderly tend to the infant's every need, still shaking with anxiety and worry.
Other times, she would leave the house with Jonathan, because Lonnie was tired from work and wanted to relax at home. She would walk him around outside, still shushing him. She would cry a little too sometimes, because she hated that their son's crying was considered just a racket disturbing Lonnie's peace. To her, it was something so important. He cried because he needed them, and he needed to be cared for. It wasn't just noise-it was her boy needing her. She didn't want anything to stop her boy from calling for help.
As Jonathan grew older, he became more and more like a small adult. He was so young, but he was still so serious. He didn't always let her smother him; he liked his space, and was growing more and more independent. He would go missing at random intervals, scaring Joyce almost into a panic, only to be found sitting outside on the ground, looking at the trees. More than anything, Joyce wanted to make him laugh. Tickles, silly knock-knock jokes, and her funny voices would sometimes bring a small smile. It would make her swell with joy. But she hadn't heard him laugh.
That is, until he was nearly one and a half. She would put the TV on in the living room, and play cartoons for him as he played. She liked the cartoons herself, and would always wear an amused smile at the antics of the animated characters. Jonathan would look at the screen, glance back at her, and smile too. After a while, he became more interested in the cartoons, inching closer to the TV and watching for longer periods of time.
Then one day, she heard it. She was in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette, when a small giggle slipped out. She could hear the recognizable voice of Donald Duck, sputtering angrily as he often did, and she put out the cigarette and walked over, as Jonathan's giggled more, then started bursting into a fit of laughter.
Joyce could never quite remember what exactly Donald Duck was doing in this particular cartoon, but all that mattered was how amusing her son found it. Not just amusing. Hilarious. Joyce joined him on the floor, laughing with joy, pride, and amusement with him. He laughed more. It was contagious. Joyce found herself laughing harder and harder. She grabbed him by the sides playfully, and he shrieked with laughter as he fell over on top of her. She couldn't have felt happier. It was like all of her anxiety was washed away by the love of that small voice, and his small hands.
He didn't always laugh. He would still sit and stare, he would still move away from Joyce's arms at times when he wasn't in the mood for a hug, but those moments where mother and son shared in beautiful joy became more often after that one cartoon. Jonathan would take her by the arm to bring her in the living room, so they could watch cartoons together. They laughed. He would sit leaning against her, or sometimes in her lap. Every day, even though she didn't always say it, she still marveled at her son. He was simply amazing.