Desperate Times

Dear Laney,

Again, we're down to one final pacifier in the house. It's broken, it's weathered, and your dad is so grossed out by it that he's convinced that even after we run it through the dishwasher, it must be crawling with flesh-eating bacteria.

Last month, your dad and I instituted a new rule that the pacifier lives in your bed. You can go visit him if you want, but he can't can't come visit us. Sort of like having a relative in San Quentin. Mostly, I was tired of seeing it, and I decided that I don't care if you keep that pacifier in your bed until you're 16, I just don't want to have to look at it.

But here's the magnificent byproduct of this rule: sometimes, when you're feeling down, you'll say, "I just want to go see my par." And you'll go upstairs all by yourself. Twenty minutes later, your dad and I will creep up the stairs only to discover you lying in bed, silently staring at the ceiling and sucking on that pacifier. You don't mind bedtime so much, because it means you'll be reunited with your love. At nap time, your dad and I will look around and ask each other, "Where did Laney go?" and as it turns out, you've gone upstairs and put yourself down for your nap. Unheard of.

Maybe one day you'll get past the pull of the par, but in the meantime, your dad and I would like to thank this $2 chunk of plastic for the only alone time we ever get.

Love,

Mom