Momnesia

There Will Be Blood

Emerson has been latched onto her pacifier (that we call a "chupo") since about her 5th day home from the hospital. We've never been able to separate her from it. We were surprised at that. We had made a pact: NO PACIFIERS long before she was born.

Oh, how the high and mighty fall - and quick! After the first few days of inconsolability, I referred back to "Happiest Baby on the Block" DVD, which recommends that parents view pacifiers as part of the natural instinct of a baby. Since I wasn't able to breast-feed, and felt horribly guilty about it (and since during the few moments of the day when I was not kicking myself for failing to produce milk like the proper bovine I should be, someone from la Leche league was just frickin' bound to stop by and chastize me for "making that choice;" I mean, did they have me on a schedule? Did they synchronize their watches?!), I eventually gave in to the pacifier.

Soon, it became the central object around which our lives revolved. "Where is the chupo? Do you have a chupo? Have you washed the chupos? DearGodIcan'tfindthechupo!" That was three years ago. From time-to-time, we'd toy with the idea of ending the chupo. The pediatrician said, "break the habit before she's 18 months." Then she went into day care. Then he said to break her before she hit 2 years old. Then she couldn't have a chupo in the 2-year-old room, but she needed it at night to sleep. Then he said, "Break the habit before she is 3 years old."


Well, her third birthday came and went a month ago. And she still had that idiotic thing stuck to her face. Of course, it's my fault for not breast-feeding her (Are you all thinking about my boobs now? Stop it!).

And then, the day came. We had run out of chupos. I think we left the last one in Fort Discovery's theatre. It might be in their parking garage. Whatever; it was gone. So last night, at bedtime when she asked for her chupo, I told her: "I'm sorry, honey, but I can't find it. We'll find it tomorrow."

Immediately she sprang out of bed, palms in the air: "We gotta fine it! We gotta fine da chupo!" I gently put her back in the bed.
"No, doodle; I'm sorry. The chupos are all gone. We'll have to find them tomorrow."
She looked up at me, eyes wide. "Dey aw' gone?"
"Yes, doodle. Maybe we'll find it tomorrow. But you can sleep without it, just like you do at school."
She stared up at me. It was as if I'd lapsed into Mandarin. "We gotta fine' da chupo!"
"It's time for sleepies now, roodle-doo. Let's lay down and close our eyes."
"NOoooooooooo!" she wailed. "I nee' my chuuuuuuupooooooooo!"
"No, ma'am," I said, more firmly. "We will look for it tomorrow. But tonight, you will just have to live without it."


Oh, my god, the screaming. I just knew the neighbors were going to call the police. But she's not usually like this. She hadn't had a nap yesterday, and we'd been to the HiFi Felix Show and Fort Discovery and Target and finally had just run out of energy. If there was one day that we should have avoided the chupo issue, that was it. But it was too late. I soothed her as best I could, and then closed her door.

It wasn't until I could hear her gasping for breath that I thought we should go check on her. She really was hysterical. After a while, Scott leaped up and grabbed his keys. "I will find her a chupo if I have to drive to Wal-Mart."

I sighed, hauled myself off the couch and crawled into her toddler bed with her. She snuggled up next to me, spooned in the crook of my arm, and sniffled and hiccuped until she was more calm. "Mama, I needa chupo," she said, softly, plaintively.
"I know, sweetie. But we don't have one right now. Mama will stay her with you."
"Chupo is for little babies?" she asked, the way an adult might when searching for the meaning of life. And, truthfully, this might be the most demanding thing we've ever asked of her.
"Yes, I guess so."
"Mama, I a little baby," she said, and rubbed her cheek on my shoulder.
"You are?"
"Uh-huh."
"You'll always be mama's little baby."
"Yeah..." she snuggled up next to me again. I laid there for a minute in the silence, smelling her hair and trying to find room for my butt on the tiny bed. Suddenly, she turned over and patted my face in the darkness.
"I lub you," she said, and I could see moonlight glinting off her teeth as she smiled.
"I love you, too, woozie," I said, happy to chop my butt right off if that's what it took to make it through the night with her in this bed.
But sooner than I expected, she was fast asleep, breathing heavily and making little smacking sounds with her lips. If she couldn't have a chupo in real life, it seems she would find one in dreamland. Slowly, carefully, I slid my sleeping arm out from under her sleeping head. But she sighed and hooked one arm around my arm as I tried to sit up.

I guess the laundry can wait.