Maybe the Cold Turkey Ate Your Baby

This is an intervention.

My youngest collects binkys like I horde t-shirts. He’s an addict (I’m just hip and stylish).

Which is why he had to stop. Slowly he dwindled down his stash, one hidden here, one in Johnson’s underwear, one in the toy box, until there was but one left, and he was warned. We told him that once he chewed a hole in it that it would be trash and the pacifier would be no more.

Except we didn’t call it a pacifier. We called it a baby. We called it a baby because that’s what he calls it and I have enough battles to fight without trying to correct a 2-year-old on the terminology of an item that I want him to forget.

At one time he had a five baby a day habit. There was Baby Red, and Baby Blue, Baby Blue 2, and random other pacifiers that would make cameos before they once again disappeared into whatever fog they had emerged from.

Baby Blue (it may have been Baby Blue 2) put up a good fight, but it was no match for the teeth of my son, a promising biter. Baby Blue was pronounced dead at 3:30 yesterday afternoon. I called the time.

Then came the crying. And the screaming. Zane went from room to room calling, “Baaaby” like a tiny Stanley searching for his Stella. It left a lot to be desired.

I think it would be easier to break someone of a meth addiction.

We’ve tried gum. We’ve tried grapes and toys not meant for children under 3. I made a patch.

I’m driving by rehabs that aren’t even on my way home.

This isn’t going to be easy, but we love him less and less by the moment and we’re here for him. Someday he’ll thank us. Maybe.

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