This picture is not what it seems. I know it looks as though I’m gazing adoringly at my beautiful daughter. And I’ll admit that I always look at her with a more than healthy dose of affection. But I guarantee you that one of the dominant thoughts racing through my mind the moment this was taken was “God, I hate that bleepin’ binky!”
Yup. The pacifier. The plug. The bink. It brings comfort to my child, but it just plain irritates me to hell.
But I’ve been schooled. And I feel better. Thank heavens.
I’m taking a weekly parenting class with Stella right now and love the feedback I’m receiving from the teacher and the interaction with other moms and toddlers. Hilarity quickly ensues when you throw ten or more toddlers and their mamas together. It’s a bit messy and a little nuts, but Stella and I dig it.
I asked our teacher, Miss Francie (all teachers should be named Miss Francie, right?), what she thought of binkies, and she quickly explained her theories of age-appropriate comfort aids. It all made sense, and I felt totally convinced after her speech. Let her have it. It's harmless. It's okay.
Well, then binky it is.
We will continue binkin’ around here, and I’m going to try my darndest to let go of my irritation. While Stella may impress me with her precocious worldliness and adventurous spirit, she’s still just a peanut. And peanuts need comfort. Since I don’t really care that she sometimes needs to sleep with the light on, or drag her blanky around when we run errands or read a bazillion stories before we get out of bed in the morning, I suppose I shouldn’t really care if my wee one – and she is so wee – needs a little extra comfort by way of the bink. Comfort is comfort. So be it.
Can you tell I'm talking myself into being okay with all this? I know. I know. This is all so silly. There are much bigger fish to fry as far as parenting. A friend of mine has eighteen month old twins and another baby due in a matter of weeks. Unknowingly, she always provides me with a wise perspective. With her hands literally full, full, full, she doesn't seem to bother herself with the little worries like whether or not one of her boys relies heavily on the binky. If it helps make him feel safe and comfortable in this crazy world, he can have it. Again, this binky stuff is amateur hour compared the the potential worries that lie ahead. Before I know it, I’ll be fretting over issues like dating and driving. I suspect sleepless nights will take on a whole new meaning.
But oh, this control freak stuff is hard to give up, isn’t it? Because that's what this is really about. It's not about binkies; it's about control. It rears its head in the most unexpected and strange arenas. And for some stupid reason, Stella wanting her binky a lot these days is kick starting my instinct to render control while I really should be allowing her the sense of control (and comfort) she gains from that ridiculous plug.
I hate admitting that I'm having an absurd power struggle with a one year old about a piece of plastic. Ugh. It seems so trivial. But I’m determined – as any good control artist would be – to deal with this head on. We’ll live a binky-friendly life here in our house.
We’ll be downright binkerific if we have to be.
Yup. The pacifier. The plug. The bink. It brings comfort to my child, but it just plain irritates me to hell.
But I’ve been schooled. And I feel better. Thank heavens.
I’m taking a weekly parenting class with Stella right now and love the feedback I’m receiving from the teacher and the interaction with other moms and toddlers. Hilarity quickly ensues when you throw ten or more toddlers and their mamas together. It’s a bit messy and a little nuts, but Stella and I dig it.
I asked our teacher, Miss Francie (all teachers should be named Miss Francie, right?), what she thought of binkies, and she quickly explained her theories of age-appropriate comfort aids. It all made sense, and I felt totally convinced after her speech. Let her have it. It's harmless. It's okay.
Well, then binky it is.
We will continue binkin’ around here, and I’m going to try my darndest to let go of my irritation. While Stella may impress me with her precocious worldliness and adventurous spirit, she’s still just a peanut. And peanuts need comfort. Since I don’t really care that she sometimes needs to sleep with the light on, or drag her blanky around when we run errands or read a bazillion stories before we get out of bed in the morning, I suppose I shouldn’t really care if my wee one – and she is so wee – needs a little extra comfort by way of the bink. Comfort is comfort. So be it.
Can you tell I'm talking myself into being okay with all this? I know. I know. This is all so silly. There are much bigger fish to fry as far as parenting. A friend of mine has eighteen month old twins and another baby due in a matter of weeks. Unknowingly, she always provides me with a wise perspective. With her hands literally full, full, full, she doesn't seem to bother herself with the little worries like whether or not one of her boys relies heavily on the binky. If it helps make him feel safe and comfortable in this crazy world, he can have it. Again, this binky stuff is amateur hour compared the the potential worries that lie ahead. Before I know it, I’ll be fretting over issues like dating and driving. I suspect sleepless nights will take on a whole new meaning.
But oh, this control freak stuff is hard to give up, isn’t it? Because that's what this is really about. It's not about binkies; it's about control. It rears its head in the most unexpected and strange arenas. And for some stupid reason, Stella wanting her binky a lot these days is kick starting my instinct to render control while I really should be allowing her the sense of control (and comfort) she gains from that ridiculous plug.
I hate admitting that I'm having an absurd power struggle with a one year old about a piece of plastic. Ugh. It seems so trivial. But I’m determined – as any good control artist would be – to deal with this head on. We’ll live a binky-friendly life here in our house.
We’ll be downright binkerific if we have to be.
1 comment:
Dang it if I don't hate that thing too, the dreaded "ba-ba". Ava sooths herself by saying "Mommy's here... Ba-ba's here...." So I know I'm on a equal footing with the pacifier just in case I needed reminding. You're right it is just a piece of plastic.
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