The time has come, the walrus said …

Actually, it was our lovely day care lady that said it, and she’s nothing like  a walrus. She’s very nice. And the voice in the back of my head also said it. It’s more walrus-like than our day care lady, and should sometimes just shut up.

I’ve never been a fan of the dummy, and spend many a month in the early years of my Mummying career with a smug look on my face because “my children won’t take a dummy”. I know this is all crap, the smug bit, but I couldn’t help it. Possibly because I was, on occasion, praised - yes, actually praised – because my kids didn’t have one.

We did try with Darling Son number 1, who had the very advanced ability, at five months of age, to flick the dummy out of his mouth and across the room, and replace it firmly with his first two fingers. So firmly were they plugged in that it took several threats of finer removal, an unfortunate incident involving an incredibly immature father placing a tabasco soaked bandaid over the fingers, a bout of threadworm and the ”if you keep sucking your fingers, you won’t be able to touch the baby ever again!” Or, in minutes… about 7 years to deprive the poor child of that habit.

Son number two was sent home from hospital with a “get him a dummy, NOW, he needs it. And you will, too! Trust us on this!” I smiled and nodded politely. What would they know, they’re only midwives and only see thousands of babies a day? Pfft. Amateurs!

That lasted all of 7 minutes before I was racing up to the chemist in my pyjama pants, gargantuan boobs bobbling wildly, and screaming for a dummy!

But “only for when he needs it” and never to be stuffed in “just because”. At six months, I was going to “wean” him. And wean him I did – success!

Until a month later he stuck the thumb in, and there it has remained ever since … 6 years on.

Now, let me be clear. I don’t actually have a problem with dummies, or their use. Except in my house. I think its a germ thing. Quite frankly, I don’t like it when we’re out, there’s no running water in a 500km radius and the crawler drags his dummy through dirt, bird poo and the festering remains of a hamburger, and then screams for his dummy, so you’re forced to do that thing where you suck the thing to sterelise it and shove it back in his mouth to shut him up.

Euwww!

That, and I have far too many things to remember, and despise the hold Guilt has over me when we’re out and I am unable to locate any of the fourteen we own in the well-stocked nappy bag. Quite possibly because they are all sitting on the microwave so I’ll remember where they are. Or in the cats’ bowl.

Anyway, for a few months now I’ve been toying with the idea of Ditching the Dummy. This was reinforced when I was finally, finally granted some repreive of my motherly duties in the form of Family Day Care and our gorouges, un-walrus-like care provider informed us she preferred he didn’t have it. Yeah, me too, lady!

That, and the fact that I’m a big fan of communication, and nothing irks me more than a toddler with his or her gob stuffed with a cutesy, teddy bear infested plug in their mouth mumbling some shit at you that you just can’t understand becuase of said plug, then throwing a tantrum because they’re not getting what they want.

To highlight just how important communication is to me, I have been known to scream at 6-week old babies “Use your words!” after much patting, rubbing, changing of nappies, feeding and various other forms of settling and getting nowhere. That’s the clincher for me. Talk. So I can understand you.

Resolve firmly in place, I set about this task of “weaning”, commencing with strong words to the Grumpy One about not letting him (Chippie, not Grumpy) have his dummy, and to use all means possible; distraction, food, drink, letting him torture the cat. Whatever it took, we were going to do this.

Except, I’ve just realised, it’s actually not about him and whether he is ready at all. It’s about us!

I’m not entirely sure we can do this, as I stuff the dummy in his mouth to shut him up when I’m on a business phone call. Or on the toilet. Or locking myself in wardrobes and rocking back and forth.

I’m actually not even aware I’m doing it, so ingrained is this habit, that there he is, happily playing and next thing I know, he’s got his gob firmly plugged up. Not with the dummy that’s been lying under the stairs for 3 weeks now, either.

*sigh*

The only thing that’s getting me through the Extraction and Deprivation Process at the moment is the fact I have just ordered a box (or several) of wine. It should get me through till the weekend. My only hope is he will have accepted the transition by then.

I’m not sure I can.