Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Put a sock in it, will ya?
Our babysitter informed me recently that she was taking the binky away from Annabel during naps.
It was just a fact. There was no "do you want me to ... or what do you think ..." just that her own binky-addicted daughter was also three when she pulled the plug and the screaming frenzy began, making her wish she'd never introduced the thing to begin with.
She's apparently been waiting for me to tell her the time had come to return the offending device to the "binky fairy" or the "binky mommy," or to whatever corner of hell pacifiers originally hail. She's just been waiting for a "partner."
In other words: I've yet again dropped the ball.
My mother-in-law has been asking for more than a year (on and off, and sweetly) whether this was the year the binky was going to be sent to "Santa."
Remember me folks? The one who walks the path of least resistance? The one who looks around at her office mates and decides not to worry about such things?
After all, no one here in cubicle land is sucking away on a binky.
But it's true: She doesn't need it anymore. She doesn't have it in the car.
She doesn't take it to school. She doesn't even keep it in her mouth the whole night through.
To everyone's surprise, mine especially, the official report is that Ittybit showed only brief resistance to the news her beloved "oro (Ittybit for orange) binks" had returned to its mommy. She slept with her tiny lamb pressed against her cheek for the requisite two hours.
The babysitter next suggested it was time for the binks to leave our house, too. (It was mentioned in what I would say was a 'Now-I'm-Not-Telling-You-What-To-Do' speech.) So I thought I'd try it. (Out of the unspoken "But-This-Is-What-A-Good-Mom-Would-Do" gist of the speech.)
Last night at bedtime I told Annabel that now that she was a big girl, it was time to send the binky back home. That it was needed elsewhere.
Instant tears and sobs of desperation.
"But I'm NOT a big girl, mommy. I'm still a little girl," she wailed.
And. She. Didn't. Stop.
"Well I think you are a big girl, but how about if we hang on to 'purple binks' until Santa comes? Then he can take it home."
She agreed, but I'm sure it was the kind of hollow agreement that means she's appeasing the one who can be manipulated. She's biding her time, hoping I'll forget the whole mission.
Really, though, I don't know how to react. I don't know how to feel.
This is a stress I don't need right now either: Christmas, a cold and cough that's been hanging on for weeks, guests, parties, presents ... I feel as if everyone is telling me what to do, how to raise her and I am genuflecting in guilt and shame.
A part of me is angry. Part of me is feeling guilty about being a wimp. But a part of me is tired, too.
When I reach down into the core of my beliefs. I always come up with the same thing: I don't think a pacifier is the worst thing in the world, and I don't particularly care if it helps her get to sleep. I am reminded about Jed and his need for "white noise," and how I've had to adapt my own sleep habits to compensate for the whirring of humidifiers and fans that he needs to get some shut-eye.
We all need something right? Perhaps I'd feel better if I could just put a sock in it.
Maybe I'll ask Santa to bring me earplugs this year.
Posted by toyfoto at 7:25 AM