How Not to Calm a Child on a Plane (23 page)

For two solid hours.

Of screaming.

Worse, now that she's teething, she's begun grinding Binky back and forth in her porcelain nubs so that it makes a low, ominous
SCREEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE
sound, like something out of a Japanese horror film.

A friend suggested cutting a pinhole in Binky to “make it less satisfying for her,” so I spent last night sticking safety pins through every one of her Binkies. It made me feel desperate and dirty, like some girl popping holes in condoms on prom night. When I sneaked the compromised pacifiers back into her rotation, the child didn't seem to care—she went on happily sucking on Binky. The only difference is that it now whistles in a high-pitched tone that causes my ears to bleed.

I know I should be thankful for something that gives my child comfort and joy, but I'm not. The H thinks I'm resentful because of all the breast-feeding problems
the pacifier caused.
^*
He put it this way: “It's like when a dude gets cock-blocked by another guy. You got tit-blocked by a Binky.”

So yeah, Diary, you could say that I'm just a tad resentful.

M
ARCH
6, 2008

Spent the day Googling
speech impediments
and
orthodontic expenses
and staring into the kid's open mouth while she napped. I am now positive that Binky is morphing her little smile into a
Deliverance
-style maze of buckteeth and racism.

Being that the husband is out of town for the weekend, I decide to take action. (I'll admit that my record in situations like these is not so great. Last time he left town, I got an asymmetrical haircut; the time before that, I signed up for the “Beef of the Month Club” from a guy driving through the neighborhood in a '79 custom van. But this urge takes hold of me, and I am powerless to ignore it.)

I let the kid watch eleven back-to-back episodes of
Caillou
while I rounded up all of the pacifiers in the house and hid them in a bag in the garage. Then guilt and paranoia kicked in, so I pumped her up with candy and chased her around the house, tickling her until she passed out from sheer exhaustion.

As I laid her down in her crib, I silently congratulated myself for taking Binky by the balls. This is going
to work, because parenting is instinctual—in a way that buying beef products is not.

M
ARCH
7, 2008, 3:00
A.M.

I awoke when I heard a noise in the middle of the night, but when I got up to investigate I saw that it was just the dog humping my slipper. I tiptoed past the kid's room, where I could hear her breathing deeply, sleeping soundly, making it through her first night without Binky.

That passy's ass is
grass
.

The husband will be pleased with my success. He will also be annoyed by it. It will be a total win-win for me.

M
ARCH
7, 2008, 6:30
A.M.

The kid is still sleeping so soundly that I have time to shower and make her pancakes for breakfast. Cheers to the power of intuition . . . and to the effectiveness of cold turkey, well done!

M
ARCH
7, 2008, 7:00
A.M.

I sneaked into her room and leaned in to lay a kiss on the back of her head. As she rolled over sleepily, what did I see hanging out of her face but A GODDAMN BINKY!!!!!

WHAT IN THE FRIGGIN FRIG—?! I was SURE I'd gotten them all . . . Maybe it was stuck under the mattress . . . or between the crib and the wall . . . or maybe Lucifer himself appeared in a puff of sulfur and stuck one in her face to pay me back for that time when I was twelve and swore on a Bible that I was related to Kristy McNichol . . .

I just reread what I wrote, and all I can think is that I must be losing my mind.

I'm off now to the garage to retrieve the hidden pacifiers.

Seems Binky has won the battle.

But the war is still far from over.

F
EBRUARY
2009

BINKY STILL OWNS US.

A
UGUST
22, 2009

In light of recent developments, I have decided that my only course of action is to support my child in her pacifier habit.

To that end, in an attempt to fully understand her “addiction,” last night after she went to sleep I set a timer for five minutes, inserted one of the Binkies into my mouth, and, as God is my witness,
I sucked
.

What follows is a rough transcript of my thoughts during that time:

Breathe
. . .
suck
. . .

Breathe
. . .
suck
. . .

What the shitting shit am I doing? What if the government is recording me through the baby monitor, and this ends up going viral on Facebook or Twitter or some other site I'm too unhip to know about?! Though this is far from the dumbest thing I have ever done, it will ruin me!

Get a hold of yourself, Stein
. . .
You're doing this for your child. Any loving, neurotic parent would do the same. Stay with this
.

Breathe
. . .
suck
. . .

Breathe
. . .
suck
. . .

Wow. I suck loudly
.

Okay
. . .
Now I've got a good groove going
.

Breathe
. . .
suck
. . .

This actually feels sort of nice
.

Mmmmkay. Just gonna let my mind wander
. . .

Breathe
. . .
suck
. . .
breathe
. . .
suck
. . .

Wow, this takes me back to my college days
. . .
Except this thing would've been lit and I'd have been laughing hysterically at a piece of cheddar cheese
.

Breathe
. . .
suck
. . .

It feels so tiny in my mouth. Huh. I wonder how my ex-boyfriend Doug is doing?

Breathe
. . .
suck
. . .

I feel really
. . .
good. And
. . .
satisfied. Just sucking and “being” like this, I feel so powerful, as though I could do anything
. . .
Like join the Peace Corps! Or move to Ghana! Or help birth a two-headed wildebeest!

I could really get used to this. I wonder if they make these in chocolate flav—

And there goes the alarm.

The baby crack experiment is over.

It was definitely an interesting, illuminating, and not altogether unpleasant experience. In the long run, however, I don't think it's for me; on the other hand, neither is macramé, and I didn't kick my grandma to the curb over that.

So the kid likes to suck on a plastic teat. Who cares? We all have our guilty pleasures. As a child I used to pick up chewed gum from the sidewalk and eat it. Didn't hurt
me in the long run; if anything, it probably strengthened my immune system, and most certainly helped me to become a thrifty consumer. Back in elementary school, (
Name Redacted
) was a well-known booger eater but then grew up to become a respected member of Canadian Parliament—so really, who are we to judge?

N
OVEMBER
11, 2010

During a walk today an old lady smiled at us, “My, my, isn't she a little bit old for a passy?” I wanted to respond, “As a matter of fact, you righteous old gasbag, yes she is!” But I didn't. And when an under-three-year-old at the park yelled at my now almost-four-year-old sucking on her pacifier, “WHY YOU SUCK ON DAT? DON'T DO DAT!” I suppressed my desire to walk right up to him and slap his mother.

I can deal with my own judgment—but now the ass-faces of the world are weighing in.

So I did what I always do when wrestling with a deeply troubling parenting concern: I turned to the opinions of perfect strangers and faceless trolls. This time, however, the Internet was most helpful, and I learned about “The Binky Fairy,” a recent Tooth Fairy–adjacent addition to popular kid bamboozlery.

As per the “mythology,” I tell the child all about the magical creature who comes in the night to take Binkies from big kids so that she can give them to poor, unfortunate babies without Binkies—and in their place leaves unimagined treasures.

The child was intrigued. “HOW WILL I KNOW WHEN SHE'S COMING?” she asked. I offered to text the Binky Fairy and check on her availability.

“Looks like she has an opening tonight . . .”

Surprisingly, the kid said she was ready.

We're going for it. Tonight!

7:30
P.M.

We put the Binkies in a special box and left it on her dresser. She said she's happy for the baby who will get her Binky, then asked how big and strong the Binky Fairy is, and will she be using a sleigh to bring all those treasures?

I just turned out the light. Shouldn't be long now.

8:47
P.M.

Was surprised to find her awake, but just barely. Her eyes were drooping. NOW, it shouldn't be long, now.

10:06
P.M.

MAYDAY! MAYDAY! THE WHEELS ARE OFF THE WAGON! The kid is jumping up and down on her bed, wild-eyed; she's wired and babbling aggressively. She's not upset—but it seems she has forgotten how to sleep. Is this what happens when a heroin addict goes through withdrawal?

10:25
P.M.

I rubbed her back until my hands were chafed. She finally passed out face-first into her pillow.

SHIT! Just realized I have no Binky Fairy booty to seal the deal.

Just yelled to the husband, “HOLD DOWN THE FORT!”—am off to the late-night Target that's open 'til 11:00. Wish me luck!

10:52
P.M.

T
ARGET

N
OT-SO-GREAT AREA OF TOWN

I grab a cart, careening through the aisles toward the toy section . . . double back to grab some toilet paper and a jar of Nutella (on special) . . . then on to the aisles filled with pink, where I shop like one of those contestants on a daytime game show, grabbing whatever I can get my hands on. A pink bedazzled pillow. A Barbie book. A hula hoop. And the first sparkly greeting card I see, one that says “CONGRATULATIONS TO A FINE BOY ON HIS BAR MITZVAH,” because who gives a snot, she can't read yet.

I check out, the last customer in the store, and speed home, praying to God that I don't get carjacked by gang-bangers who will kill me when all I have to offer is a carload of pink crap and an overdrawn ATM card.

Once home I compose a “letter” from the Binky Fairy. In it I go into great detail about the intended Binky recipient—she's got a real sob story: she's got no Binky, no toys. I even drop hints that she's legally blind. If my kid isn't moved by this, then she's not human.

7:00
A.M.

Was awakened by the kid screaming.

“SHE CAME! THE BINKY FAIRY CAME!”

She was ecstatic about the gifts left in her room and listened patiently as I read aloud the letter from the Binky Fairy, stuttering and stumbling as I did in order to maintain the illusion that I've never seen it before (I am nothing if not a committed liar).

M
ONDAY
, N
OVEMBER
14, 2010

The weekend was a little rough—there were a few tears and some “WHY DID B HAVE TO GO?'s,” but the child seems to have accepted her new normal. Also, turns out she's pretty good with the hula hoop.

As we dropped the kid off at preschool we watched as she told her friends all about her visit from the Binky Fairy. Rebecca—a loud-talking redhead with a tough-sounding lisp—listened with interest. Then Rebecca asked point-blank, “WHY DON'T YOU JUTH THUCK YOUR THUMB?” and demonstrated, shoving her paint-covered thumb into her mouth.

And just like that, our former pacifier addict, the altruistic Binky donor, became one of the most committed thumb suckers the world has ever known.

*
As painfully detailed in Chapter 3, “Spoiled Milk.”

fifteen