Binky, Water Colored Memories
My daughter has lost her first love. With a broken heart, and a bowl of ice cream, I curled up with Sloan in my bed last night and we cried together; I was proud to pass on what mothers have passed to daughters since Laura Ingalls Wilder lost her first boyfriend (personally, I think the trick was finding a man who could be attracted to infrequent stabs at personal hygiene and flour sack dresses). Scott walked in, carrying Dodge, and just stared, “Shauna, we took away her pacifier, she didn't lose her prom date!” I thought he was a little harsh.
Since Scott and I brought Dodge home from Guatemala , Sloan has been taking more naps than my father. When my toddler started sleeping more than a 60-year-old man watching a M*A*S*H* marathon, I found cause for concern. After a couple trips to the pediatrician, I figured out that Sloan was sleeping so much to get a little quality time with her binky, I only wish I would have had that flash of insight before spending enough in co-pays to buy my pediatrician a Lexus.
During one of Sloan's many senior citizen style naps, I decided it was time to send the pacifier the way of the golden goose. Not being a woman to go at anything without a plan, however, I came up with “the ban the old man nap plan”. I woke up my snoring daughter and loaded my little herd into the car. We arrived at the Wal-Mart five minutes later and I directed the whole crew back to the baby section where I let Sloan pick out a new sippy cup that she could put her water in before bed, Sloan then picked out an Elmo flashlight that giggles and snorts when you push his button (much like my husband). I got Sloan so excited, we called them her “Special big girl, don't need a binky - cup and flashlight”. Good grief I'm deluded.
So 9:00 came and with it, Sloan's bedtime. Things did not go exactly as I planned. There was screaming, a LOT of screaming. Sloan stole Dodge's pacifier (since hers was called Binky, we call his Leroy), kicked the dog, went to time out three times, accused me of trying to channel Joan Crawford in “Mommy Dearest” (I am paraphrasing from 2 year old shriek-speak), Sloan finally fell, exhausted, in pink fuzzy footy jammies into bed. She didn't necessarily see our side, but she was too tired to fight; I see that as a victory.
Napoleon said, “Victory belongs to the most persevering.” Now, whether or not I want to be more perseverant, I have to be. I have shared this battle with you all. If I gave up now…to a two year old, you would think I was a weenie. So, I guess, to avoid an Oscar Mayer Mommy scenario, I will stay and fight. Wish me luck.
Boise City News