Did it all for the Nukkie

On Friday, completely randomly, I got it into my head that Cletus would be giving up her pacifier habit. Cold turkey. That afternoon. I don't know... the weekend was approaching, I had just gotten paid, I was feeling confident - or at least proactive. Now, mind you, I didn't harbor any particular visions of success. I was more or less expecting things to go down as they had during one of the various weeks I had dubbed "Time to Get Started With Potty Training. For Real, This Time." Read: the universe laughing while I flail.

(Speaking of potty training... remind me to tell you the story about how Cletus stood outside the bathroom the other day while I was inside relieving myself. She pounded her fists on the door and shouted "Mommy, are you peeing in the potty?" until I answered "yes," to which she replied "GOOD JOB, MOMMY! WAY TO GO! WHAT A BIG GIRL!")

So... pacifiers. I picked Cletus up from daycare early and brought her back home, where we commenced a full-scale search of the house for all Nuks and Nuk-related paraphernalia. I told Cletus that her baby friends were all out of pacifiers and asked her, since she was a big girl now and everything, if she wouldn't mind giving HER pacifiers to these needy, pathetic little wretches. She was amenable to the idea, especially when I sweetened the deal with the promise of a new toy for her trouble. Some might call that a bribe. Some might be right.

We popped the Nuks into an envelope and drove downtown to the little locally-owned toystore, whose owner I had called earlier in the day to solicit her participation. The toystore owner met us at the door with much fanfare, took Cletus' envelope, and made a big show of writing down the names of all the babies Cletus could think of, so that she could mail them their new [filthy, bitten-down, spit-stained] pacifiers. Cletus was enchanted by this process; her eyes were huge and thoughtful as she listed baby name after baby name.

Then we picked out a toy (I told her she could have anything she wanted; thankfully, she ultimately decided on an old-skool teddy bear rather than the three-foot-tall educational Mandarin-speaking doll she was orbiting for awhile) and were on our way. The toystore owner patted my arm as we left, saying "Have a good night, Mom" -- meaning, of course, enjoy the 24 hours of screaming that are about to commence when your child figures out what just happened.

But friends, I could not be more astounded when I tell you that I DID have a good night. Because my child? Asked for her pacifier a total of two times that evening before settling in for the long haul... and has not spoken of it since. She was ready. And while I'm sure the smoothness of the whole affair had 99.9% to do with her own readiness level and .1% to do with my involvement, I'm going to go ahead and classify the occasion as one of the first unqualified successes of my parenting career.

(Of course, the next night found me changing the child's pajamas about an hour or so after bedtime when, upon doing a routine bed-check, I discovered her face, hands, and clothes caked in -- AVERT YOUR EYES, YE WHO ARE SQUEAMISH -- a festive layer of blood, the result of impressively rigorous nose-picking. I almost hurled. And then I cut off her fingernails. Aaaaaaand... we're back to the status quo.)