Suburban Kvetch

The paci princess

My daughter wasn’t the baby I expected. Oh, I knew she was going to be a girl and I knew she would one day play with Barbies. I assumed she’d have blue eyes and blonde hair. What I didn’t imagine was, as an infant, she would be nothing like my son in more ways than toys and wardrobe. I thought she’d coo and cry when wet — like he did. I assumed she’d swing when it was time to swing and sleep when it was time to sleep — like he did.

I did not think she would have colic and reflux and never nap for more than twenty minutes at a time. And I never ever thought our family would single-handed support the pacifier industry.

But we did. And we did it for more than three years. That’s right, my daughter was a Paci Princess until four months past her third birthday.

She became our paci princess almost immediately. And we were her obedient court. Paci’s in every room, diaper bag, purse, drawer and suitcase — sometimes paci’s on my fingers just in case. She was stuck on the hospital paci’s at a time when you could only order them from the manufacturer, in Boston, and on a limited budget I could only manage to get six at a time.

But those pacifiers not only soothed my daughter - they soothed our family. We knew what worked for her and made it work for us. I am a quintessential Type B mom, I go with the flow even when it throws me for a loop. I was never against pacifiers, I just never considered them. But, I sure did once I knew that a piece of silicon made her happy and helped her sleep.

Bringing the pacifier on board made my daughter reliable. She reliably carried her ba-ba, paci and baby everywhere she went. She took it out to eat and drink and eventually to talk a blue streak. She put it in her cubby at preschool, along with her Baby.

Much to the chagrin of many, we were unwilling to take the pacifier from her until she — and we — were ready. And that came one sunny, warm December day when we lived in Tucson, and she removed the paci and I saw a rash around her mouth. That was it. That night, the Paci-Fairy came and took all the pacifiers away and left a green talking Teletubby in their place.

My daughter never looked back — she only looked at that Teletubby. Luckily that was an obsession that didn’t last as long as pacifiers.

Even though my daughter dons braces, she didn’t get buck teeth from years of worhipping at the Temple of Paci Perfection. She didn’t go to kindergarten with pacis in her pocket. And now — she’s fourteen.  The memory of the Paci Princess is a happy one.  We smile when we look at old photos - our (my) favorite being the one where she’s asleep in the carseat, paci securely in place, and a piece of Kix cereal loosely at the tip of each nostril.  That’s a keeper — added to by newer memories like that of the Pink Hair Princess.

And yes, my dedication to the parenting philosophy “whatever works,” continues.