Le Pince, Bretodeau!

I watched Amelie the other day, as I often do, when I am a bit down in the dumps. I love the scene near the beginning when Amelie's good deed brings back the memory of the little boy who wins all of the marbles at recess, only to lose them all at the hands of a teacher, who pinches his ear and drags him back into line at the sound of the bell. "Le pince, Bretodeau!"

Minutes after X was born, I pried open one of his tiny hands. His fist was so small and so tightly closed! When I touched his palm with my finger, his own fingers clamped down on mine. It was like a vise. His hands were so strong!

In his early weeks, whenever he would get upset, he would use his hands and pinch his face. I was so afraid that he would scratch himself, since I could never uncurl his fingers long enough to clip his razorlike nails. Indeed, he did manage to injure himself with his nails pretty regularly, especially in one of his moments of what looked like panic, or agony. His little red face, his cheeks in the grip of his pulling fingers. It broke my heart! I would gently pull his hands away, and tell him, "Don't pinch, don't pinch."

Now, he uses that same pinch, but on me instead! At about three months old, he started pinching the backs of my arms as I laid him on the changing table. Now, he pinches me while he is nursing. It's hard not to shout, those strong, tiny fingers gripping my soft flesh! I sometimes develop little fingerprint bruises where he has gripped me. I hope he grows out of this strange little habit, but I do not want to forget it. My little lobster. Le pince!