The Pacifier in the Pocket

When Art turned eighteen months, I had to return to college, so I put him in daycare.

It was not a smooth beginning. The teachers ran a tight ship, and one of their rules was absolute: no pacifiers. Art still relied on his for comfort, the specific, nonnegotiable comfort of a toddler who is not yet ready to let something go. The teachers responded by making him stand in the corner upon arrival; every morning he came in with it, until breakfast was served.

He cried. I cried inside, quietly, on the walk home.

At nineteen, I didn’t feel I had the standing to argue with adult teachers. They were the professionals. I was a teenager with a toddler and a university schedule, and I felt the persistent belief that other people probably knew better than I did.

Then one morning, Art showed me something I have never forgotten.

He kissed me goodbye at the door, reached into his small shirt pocket, took out his pacifier, and popped it in his mouth. Then he turned and walked straight to the corner.

Quietly. Without drama. Without looking back at me. He knew exactly what was coming. He had decided it was worth it anyway.

I stood in the doorway and felt something land in my chest. An eighteen-month-old taught me a crucial lesson. Art couldn’t change the rule. He couldn’t argue his case or negotiate the terms. He had found the only form of dignity available to him, and he had taken it.

With intention,

Nadia Granski

Choosing something and accepting its cost is accountability, part of Ownership, the O in the ROI Framework. This story is from Parenting: Return on Intention.