So I was going to write a day-by-day account of the pacifier weaning process. But then life took over, the sun rose, the sun set, and one morning I woke up and realized a week had passed and I could confidently declare that the occupation is over and we’re withdrawing all troops. Imagine the banner unfurling behind me in all it’s glory, but hopefully without the embarrassing aftermath of retractions and an additional decade of battles. (Well, of course there will be a decade of battles… But hopefully not involving improvised pacifying devices.)
I feel obliged to recount this success story in great detail so that you, too, may one day wage a successful occupation against a tyrannical binky regime, should you in fact find yourself in a similar situation.
So day 1 was when the troops invaded by cutting a little hole in the pink nigh-nigh. Or nah-nah, which is how Natesy first pronounced it. That was Wednesday.
Thursday: I missed the drama via a late-night work dinner. James rocked him to sleep. This was probably the pinnacle of the DTs. An unplanned but seemingly critical piece of the strategy. You’re the General so don’t feel too bad… delegation is all part of effective leadership.
Colonel Fucillo reported that the target talks significantly more without a speech impediment device in his mouth.
Friday: I got the following picture from Miss Dulce with the accompanying text: I had to put him to sleep in my arms he was very upset he told me no nite nite and I sing a song and he say no a mama song so I had to make one and he fell asleep.
(A Mama song? She must have been referring to our old standby lullaby: Hut, 2 – 3 – 4, I don’t know what I’ve been told… I don’t know what I’ve been told… nigh-nighs aren’t for two-year-olds… nigh-nighs aren’t for two-year-olds. Sound-off; 1 – 2; Sound-off; 3 – 4. 1 – 2 -3 -4; 1 – 2 — 3 – 4.)
Seems I forgot to recruit the school teachers into the pacifier detachment process… Minor tactical error. She tried to give him a new one but he wouldn’t take it. Puzzling… But in hindsight a clear sign the insurgency was losing ground.
Saturday: The boys went to Grandma and Granddad’s while James and I spent our 11th wedding anniversary eating braised short ribs in a school gymnasium for the annual “Be An Angel” charity dinner. Surprisingly tastier than it sounds. Of course Grandma tried to talk Nate into an intact nigh-nigh she had stashed away for just such a subversive opportunity. If you’re even remotely surprised by this, you really don’t know Grandma.
Apparently he refused and said it was for Baby Deveen. That’s how he says Devon. I certainly never told him nigh-nighs were for babies so I’m not entirely sure where he gleaned this bit of intelligence. Most likely the previous leader of this regime, Jacob Up All Nigh-Nigh.
Sunday: He asked for it when I put him in his car seat after grocery shopping. I had the defective pink nigh-nigh at the ready. But as soon as he had it he proclaimed “No nigh-nigh!” and threw it to the ground. It was like he’d experienced a moment of weakness, regained his self-control, and defied his addiction outright.
Monday: He went down easily that night. Kisses for Mama.
Tuesday: Tonight, the last words he whispered were, “No nah-nah. No nah-nah.”
Mission Accomplished. And in half the time.