Cee loves her pacifiers.
If our house were burning down and I had already passed out all over the kitchen floor from smoke inhalation because I was too busy eating all the Pop-Tarts to notice that I was also inhaling smoke along with those rectangles of perfection, my poor child, who – let’s be honest – would likely be on her own along with her father for the rest of their lives because smoke and Pop-Tarts are a deadly combination and people have died due to much less, had to find her own way out of the inferno without my help, the first thing she would go for is that little hunk of plastic and silicon.
She’d know that her mother was a lost cause, but her Nuk paci was worth fighting for. That and her bunny. Cee, her bunny, and her paci are the Three Musketeers. Together ’til the end.
And while I am completely OK with her having her bunny well into her teenage years since I am a lover of lovies myself – I still keep my own baby blanket tucked under my pillow – I’m not too keen on her sucking on that paci until she’s five. Orthodontics are expensive, and we here in our family like to spend our money on the important things. Pop-Tarts.
So we’ve been trying to break her of her paci habit since she’s getting bigger, and the longer we wait the harder it may be. We’ve been limiting her usage to car rides and when she’s going down to sleep. Usually we have pretty smooth sailing, but when she gets upset and needs to calm down, her kneejerk reaction is to go for her paci and bunny and sooth herself that way. While we’re happy to give her the bunny, we want to hold off on the paci, and therein lies the problem.
Apparently, a bunny without a paci is useless. She has to have both of them to get to her little toddler nirvana.
The loudest and most dramatic tantrums she’s been having lately are initiated when she can’t have her paci. (For full details on her tantrums because you know you want to hear all about them, click here.) It’s harrowing, and she completely looks like a junkie in the middle of a withdrawal when she’s having a paci tantrum. There needs to be some sort of pacifier version of a methadone clinic.
Yesterday, Cee went on for a good forty minutes of weeping, screaming, and throwing herself around in her Pack ‘N Play. I probably broke every rule in the book by eventually letting her out and giving her a paci, but I did it because we live in an apartment building and I don’t want to be a bad neighbor. Also, I was on the verge of tears myself. While I’m generally really good at putting my own emotions on the backburner when she’s incredibly upset over whatever grain of sand has been introduced into her toddler machinery, I do have a heart. If she’s crossed over to a place where she’s unlikely to ever regain her composure without motherly compassion – and at that point she had – I’m going to step in and help her. And if that means she gets to use her paci for five minutes so we both can relax, then that’s what we’re going to do.
We were both shaken, so we went into the living room and cozied up on the sofa with her bunny and her paci. I turned on Sesame Street so we could decompress together. And do you know what episode was seredipitously being aired that day?
The one about giving up your pacifier.
It was one of those moments when God is saying, “Doncha worry. I’ve got the whole television schedule in My hands. You’re not alone, Mama.”
And when you’re in the middle of a toddler tantrum, it’s easy to feel like you are alone.
Y’know, that Elmo? He’s not so bad. She got up from the sofa, walked over to the TV, and held her paci up to him.
Like me on Facebook? You should totally like me on Facebook. It’s like a warm puppy in your heart. Or bacon. Or the way Sesame Street always comes through.