Our baby doctor is pretty great. She’s built an entire career on the LVD method of doctoring.
L – Listen to parents’ crazy panic about nothing. “Doctor Doctor! Luca is obsessed with his pacifier. Does this mean he’ll be a drug addict when he gets older? We read on the internet that pacifiers are a gateway drug. Should we put him on Methadone just in case?
V – Validate their insane ramblings. “Well, I can understand why you are concerned. Maybe you stop standing on my examination table.”
D – Dismiss as gently as possible. “Eventually, Luca will become embarrassed at being the only kid in his Fraternity who still chews a pacifier, but if you’re freaked out, take it away from him.”
We’ve opted for the passive aggressive version of weaning him off pacifiers. Namely, we are not replacing them when they go missing. What was once a luxurious pile of plastic nipples has dwindled into one lone yellow paci.
Even though we haven’t informed Luca of our plan, he seems to know he’s down to his last pacifier. Every morning, he wakes in a panic. Over the baby monitor, I can hear him manically searching his crib. “Paci? Paci? Where is my paci?”
He flat out refuses to take it out his mouth. Which has turned his speech into a cigar chomping W.C. Fields. “Ni nant nan ilk, nease.” Thankfully, Elijah is fluent in Paciese.
“He said, ‘I want a milk, please.’ Sheesh.”
Last night, I extracted the yellow paci from his surprisingly strong grip with the intention of rinsing it off for the first time in a month. As I held it under the tap, I noticed just how horrifyingly disgusting it was. A thin layer of filth fell away like a moulting lizard.
I looked from the garbage can to my beautiful sun. He looked pleadingly into my eyes, knowing what was about to happen.
I popped the paci back into his mouth and hoped his fraternity brother would be kind.
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