By Melita
One sleepless, what-was-I-thinking night in my daughter's first months, I managed to coax a pacifier into her screaming mouth. Now nearly three, she is still hooked on her nook. Or, as I have come to think of it, the piece of plastic that launched a thousand power struggles.
Never keen on cutesy nicknames, I began my life as parent stuffily insisting on the word "pacifier." No "binky," no "paci," and, naturally, no "dummy" for me. In time, I eased into using my husband's word. He always called it a "nook." Or so I thought.
One day, realizing that Maisie was beginning to recognize words, I adopted the parental trick of obfuscation through spelling.
"Have you seen Maisie's en-double-okay?" I asked my husband as Maisie played nearby.
"Her what?" he said, cracking a smile.
"En-double-okay. You know, her nook."
"Oh, you mean her nuk. N-U-K!" he said, positively chortling to think that he had caught the family wordsmith in a spelling blunder. This just goes to show that great minds don't always think exactly alike. And those aces at Gerber can give themselves pats on the back for successful branding.
Now, a common refrain in our house is "I want my nook!" proclaimed with the fierce imperiousness of toddlerhood. We try to limit the nook to naptime and bedtime, but if Maisie spies it in an off-duty hiding place, her demands for it are both relentless and heartrending. I confess we've been known to cave.
I can't help seeing the nook as an in-her-face emblem of my primary weaknesses as a parent -- grasping for quick solutions, seeking relief for my own frazzled nerves, being inconsistent in applying rules. Part of me wants to chuck the thing in the garbage. Just think. A few teary nights, and we could be done with it. But my husband thinks Maisie might be losing interest in the nook of her own accord. Don't rock the boat. Wait it out.
For the moment, I keep the peace. After that third birthday, though, all bets are off.
Melita is putting down roots in Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband and daughter (nearly 3).