The Longest Shortest Time

The Power of Three

Sasha turned three last week—three!—and while one and two felt like a big deal because they were new numbers, three has meant something entirely different. It has meant growing up. To Sasha.

A ton of huge things happened the week three hit. First dentist appointment, first swimming lesson without Mom. But let us begin with the pacifier. Or, the nukkie, as Sasha calls it. You may recall a brief mention in a summer post that Sasha had thrown her last nukkie in the garbage. Looking back on the blog, I realize I never followed up on that. Maybe because it was too intense to talk about in the moment. Basically, here’s what happened. At the beginning of the summer, when Sasha started camp, I told her no more nukkies at school. No more nukkies outside the house. That was a struggle but we pretty much got it down. Then we tried for nukkies only at naptime and bedtime. That, er, sort of worked. While she knew that was the rule, she screamed for the nukkie when she needed comfort, and I felt like a monster for not letting her have it to soothe herself, especially because I knew she was semi-traumatized by our recent move, so she got to use it around the house more than I would’ve liked.

One morning in the middle of the summer I gave her notice that once her current nukkie (her last nukkie!) got dirty or got a hole, we were not buying a new one.

She looked at me and said, “Throw it in the garbage. Now.”

“Really? Now?” I asked. “You can wait till it gets old.”

“No,” she insisted. “Now.”

She ran to the bathroom and threw it in the garbage. And I thought that would be that.

Silly me. When I picked her up from camp that day she threw a fit. One of those fits where they use their weight to sink into the floor so that not I nor any of the teachers could lift her. I finally managed to drag her out the door, shove her into her car seat, and get her home. She screamed and she screamed and she screamed. For four hours straight. At which point I remembered that we had another nukkie hidden in a kitchen cabinet. And I decided in desperation that maybe the lesson here was that it’s okay to change your mind sometimes. She was happy, oh so happy, to have her soothing mechanism back, and we returned to nukkie at sleep (and whenever she really needed it). But the whenever she really needed it part was starting to grate on me and my husband. We couldn’t understand what she was saying if the nukkie was in her mouth; it would get food all stuck in it if she used it after a meal; and most annoyingly of all, she would cry out for it in the middle of the night when it was right under her face. And then there were the hunts. Oh, the hunts! She was supposed to leave the nukkie on her nightstand but of course she’d carry it around the house with her and then leave it somewhere that she couldn’t remember and we’d hunt under furniture, under radiators, on shelves, inside the cat door. Because lord knows she wouldn’t go to sleep without it.

Until.

Three.

We had talked about her giving up the nukkie at three. I think it started out as my deadline. But over time it clearly became hers. “When I turn three,” she’d tell me, “I get rid of my nukkie.” We even came up with a plan to set it off into the sky on an orange balloon, inspired by Mathilda and the Orange Balloon. Leading up to her birthday, she would tell everyone she could: “When I turn three, I say bye-bye to my nukkie. On an orange balloon.” The orange balloon seemed key. Like it made the whole idea fun. So last Saturday, the weekend after her birthday, I ordered white and silver balloons for her party, as well as one orange one. The plan was to tie the nukkie to the balloon and send it off into the sky, while my husband and I cheered for Sasha.

But that morning Sasha came barreling into our room. “Throw my nukkie in the garbage,” she said. “Now.” Just like she had over the summer. We asked her if this is really what she wanted to do, instead of the orange balloon, and she was adamant. In the bathroom garbage it went. Just like before. But unlike last time, this tossing stuck. Ever since Saturday she has slept through the night without it, she has napped without it. She hasn’t even asked for it. Unless you count yesterday, when she obviously needed a nap and was crying that hoarse exhausted hyperventilating cry, and she kept tapping her fingers to her mouth like a junkie smacking his arm. But she never said the word nukkie and we never said the word nukkie, and after a very long struggle she finally gave in and napped empty-mouthed.

I am so relieved to have this piece of plastic out of my life. Could I have gotten it out sooner? Maybe. Do I wish I had? Yes. But there is something so satisfying about knowing that Sasha did it on her own terms, and while I’m sure she misses it she must feel real pride in the fact that she took control and threw the nukkie in the garbage, not even waiting for that damn orange balloon. Btw, for those of you who like the sound of the balloon idea, we were told by our balloon guy that one balloon wouldn’t be enough to carry the weight of a pacifier anyway.

More on other three-year-old developments soon. But in the meantime, anyone else have any end-of-pacifier stories to share? Those of you who are having trouble getting rid of it, speak up, too!