I’m losing my mind, if I’ve not lost it already. “I want my binkin! Mommy, I want my binkin!” my two-year-old screams at me. Ah yes, let’s play the missing binkie game for the ten billionth time today. The binkie A.K.A. pacifier is once again missing. It’s past his bedtime and it’s showing with every frenzied howl let loose from his mouth. I search frantically, room to room, moving furniture, shuffling through toys and checking the garbage. He continues to scream, tears streaming down his cheeks.
I sear to God and his Holy Mother, the damn “binkin” has legs and walks away and hides on its own. I just bought a new pack of them last week and now all four are mysteriously missing, but will surely turn up stuck to my wallet inside my purse or frozen to the box of Popsicles in the freezer.
I turn to my hysterical, exhausted son and scream back, “Where did you put it sweetheart?” My ability to rationalize has flow out the window and has left me standing here stomping my feet and screaming back at him. “Uptairs,” he sobs, so up I run, stumbling and tripping every other step. I search room to room, under my bed, in the plants and in the dreaded toilet. I am so desperate that I am considering finding it there a blessing and with a quick dip in some Clorox we’d be good to go. Unfortunately, nothing! Not a damn binkie in the whole house.
His wails are becoming more and more wild and my head is pounding. In one last desperate attempt, I throw myself on the floor in his room and find behind several large and disgusting dust bunnies, the culprit causing my current anxiety attack. It’s old and dirty and probably carrying some bacteria I’ll pay for later, but it’ll have to do. I run downstairs and wash it as best as I can with soapy, hot water and practically trip over my own feet as I lunge towards my hiccupping, hysterically crying child. Immediately he stops. The overwhelming silence is eerie, but welcomed. My ears are ringing and my heart pounding and I feel the urge to sob with relief myself. Instead I carry my emotionally spent and exhausted son up the stairs and lay him down in his crib. I tense briefly as he starts to cry again, but soon he settles and falls quickly to sleep. I walk back down the stairs wondering if he’ll take his “binkin” to college with him and then decide, if he carries on like that I might just let him.