When we were at the hospital, the nurses gave Colin, our baby, a pacifier. He seemed to like it.
Later, when we were home, and Colin was crying (and crying and crying), we thought we’d try to give him a pacifier, since it had worked so well at the hospital.
Now our baby, not three weeks out of the womb, is ruled by his addiction. When it’s in his mouth, he sucks it so loudly that the sound reverberates off the walls, much like Maggie in The Simpsons. Roughly every three seconds, it falls out of his mouth. This doesn’t seem like a big deal, but our baby is a changed man since we gave him the pacifier. Without his fix, his face turns red, his fists tighten into balls, and he screams words that cannot be repeated in this family newspaper.
We’ve tried substitutes to wean him. Even he tries to self medicate by sucking his thumb, but unfortunately his coordination is lacking, and this causes him frustration that is soon followed by convulsing from sucking withdrawal. It’s terrible as a parent to watch the addiction course through his body. I’ve put my finger in his mouth for him to suck as a substitute. My husband once lay beside Colin with his finger in our son’s mouth for an hour. It quieted the storm temporarily, so the sacrifice was worth it.
The finger is not the same, though. Colin pointed this out during his SAT vocabulary lesson, when he was particularly drawn to words like “deprive,” “dispossess,” and “morose.” Further, during his book club meeting, he cooed of little else.
We now call the pacifier LSD, for little sucking device. I’ve begun researching 12 step programs to help him break free from his cage of addiction.
Some people, when they hear our plan to limit LSD, say that we are bad parents and people. I don’t think these people understand the gravity of the situation. Yesterday, for example, I caught Colin selling pumped breast milk on the street corner to earn money to fuel his addiction.
Sadly, my dog is also addicted to LSD. He’s taken two to the couch to chew to pieces, and he’s continually on the hunt for more hits. I used to think I’d accidentally dropped these pacifiers, but I later realized that Rocky steals them from our nightstand or from Colin’s swing or bassinet. He, too, is ruled by the pacifiers. I do not like Rocky’s new habit because the pacifier bits make a mess, and Colin doesn’t like it because the chewed up bits are hard to suck.
Last week, I loaded Colin in the Baby Bjorn carrier, leashed Rocky, and went for a walk. In the exact middle of the walk, when we were at the farthest point from the house, Colin’s pacifier fell on the ground. Rocky’s eyes sparkled, and I know he was thinking, “Hallelujah! It’s raining LSD!” I saved the pacifier from his chewing and certain death just as Colin began his convulsions and cries of withdrawal. I was tempted to shove the pacifier back in Colin’s mouth, but I wasn’t sure if the five second rule applied—I hadn’t yet looked it up in What to Expect the First Year. Colin continued crying, and Rocky continued frothing in expectation. It was a long walk home.
Sometimes, when Colin is sucking loudly and gleefully on his LSD, I feel a little envious. He makes it look like so much fun. Rocky seconds this feeling. A little bit I want to try it too. Is it really that fun? But then I remember Colin’s convulsions and red face and Rocky’s endless hunts for more pacifiers, and I stop myself. The two of them are like a couple of Gollums from Lord of the Rings. Yesterday, when he thought no one was watching, I thought I heard Colin whisper to it, “Yessss, my precioussss!” It reminded me to stay strong and fight the temptation. If only my child and dog could do the same.
Later, when we were home, and Colin was crying (and crying and crying), we thought we’d try to give him a pacifier, since it had worked so well at the hospital.
Now our baby, not three weeks out of the womb, is ruled by his addiction. When it’s in his mouth, he sucks it so loudly that the sound reverberates off the walls, much like Maggie in The Simpsons. Roughly every three seconds, it falls out of his mouth. This doesn’t seem like a big deal, but our baby is a changed man since we gave him the pacifier. Without his fix, his face turns red, his fists tighten into balls, and he screams words that cannot be repeated in this family newspaper.
We’ve tried substitutes to wean him. Even he tries to self medicate by sucking his thumb, but unfortunately his coordination is lacking, and this causes him frustration that is soon followed by convulsing from sucking withdrawal. It’s terrible as a parent to watch the addiction course through his body. I’ve put my finger in his mouth for him to suck as a substitute. My husband once lay beside Colin with his finger in our son’s mouth for an hour. It quieted the storm temporarily, so the sacrifice was worth it.
The finger is not the same, though. Colin pointed this out during his SAT vocabulary lesson, when he was particularly drawn to words like “deprive,” “dispossess,” and “morose.” Further, during his book club meeting, he cooed of little else.
We now call the pacifier LSD, for little sucking device. I’ve begun researching 12 step programs to help him break free from his cage of addiction.
Some people, when they hear our plan to limit LSD, say that we are bad parents and people. I don’t think these people understand the gravity of the situation. Yesterday, for example, I caught Colin selling pumped breast milk on the street corner to earn money to fuel his addiction.
Sadly, my dog is also addicted to LSD. He’s taken two to the couch to chew to pieces, and he’s continually on the hunt for more hits. I used to think I’d accidentally dropped these pacifiers, but I later realized that Rocky steals them from our nightstand or from Colin’s swing or bassinet. He, too, is ruled by the pacifiers. I do not like Rocky’s new habit because the pacifier bits make a mess, and Colin doesn’t like it because the chewed up bits are hard to suck.
Last week, I loaded Colin in the Baby Bjorn carrier, leashed Rocky, and went for a walk. In the exact middle of the walk, when we were at the farthest point from the house, Colin’s pacifier fell on the ground. Rocky’s eyes sparkled, and I know he was thinking, “Hallelujah! It’s raining LSD!” I saved the pacifier from his chewing and certain death just as Colin began his convulsions and cries of withdrawal. I was tempted to shove the pacifier back in Colin’s mouth, but I wasn’t sure if the five second rule applied—I hadn’t yet looked it up in What to Expect the First Year. Colin continued crying, and Rocky continued frothing in expectation. It was a long walk home.
Sometimes, when Colin is sucking loudly and gleefully on his LSD, I feel a little envious. He makes it look like so much fun. Rocky seconds this feeling. A little bit I want to try it too. Is it really that fun? But then I remember Colin’s convulsions and red face and Rocky’s endless hunts for more pacifiers, and I stop myself. The two of them are like a couple of Gollums from Lord of the Rings. Yesterday, when he thought no one was watching, I thought I heard Colin whisper to it, “Yessss, my precioussss!” It reminded me to stay strong and fight the temptation. If only my child and dog could do the same.
