Afta Quotes

por qué llora si no le pasa nada?", "Ha comido y está limpio, lo que tiene es cuento". ¡Error! ¿Cómo sabes que no le pasa nada? ¿Cómo te atreves a dejarle llorar porque no tenga molestias visibles? Un bebé no llora porque le apetece, ni para llamar la atención ni manipular. Esos procesos cognitivos complejos no los dominará hasta muchos años más tarde. Si llora es porque le pasa algo. Por favor, ¡no le dejes llorar! No le hagas saber que no puede contar contigo cuando lo necesite. Estas son solo algunas cosas que pueden pasarle al bebé y que no se pueden ver a simple vista:                    Le pica una oreja                   Tiene un hilo enredado entre los dedos                   Se ha asustado por algo                   Tiene sed                   Se le ha dormido el pie                   Se ha arañado                   Tiene un afta bucal                  Hay demasiada luz                  Necesita cambiar de postura                   Le va a salir su primer diente                   Un moco no le deja respirar bien                   Le raspa la etiqueta del body                   Le duele algo                   Tiene calor                   Tiene frío                   Tiene la garganta irritada                   Se le ha metido una mota de polvo en el ojo                   Ha chupado el peluche y tiene un pelo en la lengua                   Le hemos apretado demasiado el pañal o el patuco                   Tiene una contractura (mucho más común de lo que la gente piensa por la hipertonía de los bebés muy pequeños)                   Necesita una referencia de dónde está y con quién                   Se ha mordido la lengua con las encías                   Necesita saber que no le han abandonado                   etc.      ¿Cómo sabes que no le pasa nada? ¡Mira su cara de angustia! V.

My grandmother swaddled her baby, as they did two thousand years ago, and let him swing on a tree branch so she could do backbreaking work for fifteen cents a day. Lizzie talked about working, herself, too, starting when she was eight or nine years old, long before the era of child labor laws, at the Milford Shoe Company. “My first day, they put me at a sewing machine and give me two pieces a leathuh. They told me how to stitch the pieces togethuh—paht of a man’s shoe. Each time I did that, they told me, drop it inna drawa. I thought, this is easy. Zip, zip, zip, one afta anuthuh. End of the day comes, my drawa is full. Lady next to me, olda woman—she didn’t have so many done. The boss fired her right then. They gave me her job afta that.” From that day on, my aunt worked in factories all her life. Like my mother, she was heavy set but solid, as sturdy and muscled as the men who worked beside her, first at Milford Shoe and later at William Lapworth & Sons, a manufacturer of elastic fabrics, whose British-born owner berated her whenever a needle broke on her sewing machine. Later she worked at Archer Rubber, where a chemical spray left a small scar on her cheek. Her final employer was the Stylon Tile Company, known for making pink and black bathroom tiles, which were hard to handle without cutting her hands. She always called her place of work “the shop.” She was “working down at the shop.” Before I left her house, she always gave me something to take with me, like a bag of her hand-made swiss-chard ravioli, or if it was close to Christmas, a plate of her own Italian cookies. My favorites were the ceci, little fried cookies that looked like ravioli but were stuffed with sweet chestnut and honey filling, or the ones that looked like bowties, called cenci, dusted with powdered sugar. No matter how busy she was, she never let anyone leave her house hungry or empty-handed. Once I accompanied Lizzie to the Sacred Heart Cemetery to help her with all the flower baskets she wanted to lay on the gravestones of lost family members. There’s something about Italians and cemeteries. I was never attracted to cemeteries, never finding any comfort in visiting the dead, but for most of my family, it was like attending a family reunion. Seeing Lizzie moving