"But What Will I Suck On?"

Yesterday, I attended the funeral of the mother of some friends. In sympathy with them, I was naturally reminded of attending the funeral of my own mother one January (perhaps partly due to the heavy snowfall). As I contemplated the thoughts and feelings of the deceased's family--including multitudinous grandchildren, as they dealt with something very hard, it brought back memories.

One specific memory is of having to talk to my then three-year-old daughter about giving up her pacifier. It was just time. Way past time. She had given up every other baby item and learned to go potty. The binkie was her last infant hold-out. Not only did she have a little brother, but a little sister was on the way. Having to track the binkies for three children did not seem prudent.

I talked to her about the reasons she should give it up: that she really didn't need it anymore--she was a big girl; that it could possibly misshape her teeth or mouth; that it was likely one reason she kept getting sick. She is an intelligent, compliant, and feeling girl. She listened quietly.

I told her that I knew it was a hard thing that I was asking her to do, but that I knew she could do it. This part of the conversation took the longest. I pointed out that her older brothers and we, her parents, did not use binkies, and she could learn to do without one, too. I reassured her that she would soon forget all about it, that she could adjust to no longer having it.

Then, for lack of a better example, I stated that I missed my mother, who had recently died, but that I had to adjust to doing without her. Lame, I know. But somehow, it seemed parallel at the time.

I again reassured her that she would be fine--that if she could get through one night without her binkie, she would not need it anymore.

I encouraged her to try.

Strangely, though, I do think it was the example I gave of my mother's death that really gave her the resolve. I saw it happen in her eyes: if I could do without my Mama, maybe she should try to do without her binkie.

She agreed to try to go to sleep without her beloved red, yellow, and blue binkie.

I kissed her and thanked her and reassured her all over again.

As I was closing the door to her bedroom, her sweet little voice filled the mostly-dark room. "But what will I suck on?"

Her father and I smiled and suppressed giggles. Truthfully, I had to tell her, "Nothing. You will learn to not have anything to suck on. You can do it--you're not a baby anymore. You will get used to it, I promise."

Then, as her bedroom door clicked shut, my heart broke all over again.

Was I asking too much of her, this beautiful little girl normally full of sunshine, but who had also just lost her grandmother? Was it mean of me to use my own grief to guilt her into taking this step?

I find these moments in motherhood most poignant and most difficult. Part of me wants to protect my child from the trials that help them grow up. And part of me--a smaller part of me, perhaps--knows that they need the growth.

And so then I second-guess myself for a long time to come, and as my children grow into new stages and leave younger stages behind, I feel both relief and sorrow. At the same time I ache to keep them small, I know that, to be healthy, they must learn to fly. A little part of me looks forward to the freedom that this will give me.

Yet, I miss the small girl with the large question, even as I enjoy the older version of her who is so helpful.

Which reminds me how every moment is priceless and unique. And fleeting. And, no matter how many ways technology gives us to record them, they fly away, never to return.

Like my small daughter, who did get through that first night and did not ever need her binkie again, we have to adjust and get used to the new reality that replaces them--that new reality that both breaks and molds us at the same time.