Third Cry

He had three very distinct cries.  Distinct to her at least.  When he was hungry, his cry was an outreach to no one in particular.  It was loud so as to alert anyone within the vicinity that it was time to bring his food.  When he was dissatisfied, his cry was again for no one in particular.  A plea to be changed for the unfortunate one nearest him.
         It was his third cry that was for her.  This cry was by far the least muttered.  No one and nothing else could evoke such emotion from within her as did his third cry.  Fear and love to an extent unknown by anyone not yet a mother.
         It was when he was two she heard the third cry coming from his bedroom.  She immediately raced from the kitchen, her stomach in knots, her heart full of fear.  He was sitting cross-legged on the floor.  In front of him lay two toys.  Actually it was one toy in two separate pieces. 
         “Oh, baby, what happened to Donald Trump?” she asked as she lifted him onto her hip.  He tried to wrap himself around her but his baby brother growing inside her was already getting in his way. 
         “Donul Twump die mommy!” he cried as he buried his head in the crevice between her cheek and shoulder.  She knelt down to retrieve the doll’s body and the severed head off of the floor, grasping at the wall for support as she pulled herself and her two sons upright.
         Donald Trump was a name he had given his doll after nights of getting to stay up with her, watching her favorite show.  She would scoop him up and la la around the room singing ‘money money money money….Money’.  She would say ‘Donald Trump is on, let’s eat!’ and they would lay on the couch, eating popcorn. 
         Although the doll looked more like a cross between a farmer and a duck than Donald Trump, the mere humor behind the name he had given the doll had made it her favorite toy as well. “Mommy can fix Donald Trump baby, don’t cry.”
         She pulled his arms from around her neck and gently lowered him to the floor.  Her hand engulfed his tiny fingers as they walked out of his room and into the kitchen to find the sewing kit that would bring Donald Trump back to life.
         Now he was on the crest of his 8th birthday.  She had not heard the third cry since that day five years ago.  Sitting in her bedroom, she meticulously stroked the brush vertically across her thumbnail, not wanting to get the polish on her skin.  All three of her sons were suspiciously quiet in their respective bedrooms.  Suspiciously quiet enough to activate her curiosity but not quiet enough to pull her away from her momentary solitude. 
         At first she couldn’t hear the third cry coming from the bedroom due to the music playing from her desktop.  At a break between songs, she heard him quietly whimpering in the room next to hers.  She found herself once again racing to him,  knots in her stomach, fear in her heart.
         She opened the door to find him sitting cross-legged on the floor.  “What’s wrong, baby?” she asked as she bent down, gently picking up his hand to cup it in hers.
         He pulled his hand away.  “Nothing” he said as he stood up and went over to his bed, plopping down on top of the covers. 
         “Baby, you can tell mommy what’s wrong.”  He looked up at her, wiping away a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand that she couldn’t hold, “I’m almost eight.  Quit calling me baby,” he snapped.
As she stood there, staring at him, her stomach still in knots, her heart still full of fear, she couldn’t help but notice the dusty Donald Trump doll haphazardly thrown on the shelf behind him. 
And as she turned to leave his room, she realized his third cry was no longer for her.