How Not to Calm a Child on a Plane

by Johanna Stein

  MARCH 7, 2008, 7:00 A.M.

  I sneaked into her room and leaned in to lay a kiss on the back of her head. As she rolled over sleepily, what did I see hanging out of her face but A GODDAMN BINKY!!!!!

  WHAT IN THE FRIGGIN FRIG—?! I was SURE I’d gotten them all . . . Maybe it was stuck under the mattress . . . or between the crib and the wall . . . or maybe Lucifer himself appeared in a puff of sulfur and stuck one in her face to pay me back for that time when I was twelve and swore on a Bible that I was related to Kristy McNichol . . .

  I just reread what I wrote, and all I can think is that I must be losing my mind.

  I’m off now to the garage to retrieve the hidden pacifiers.

  Seems Binky has won the battle.

  But the war is still far from over.

  FEBRUARY 2009

  BINKY STILL OWNS US.

  AUGUST 22, 2009

  In light of recent developments, I have decided that my only course of action is to support my child in her pacifier habit.

  To that end, in an attempt to fully understand her “addiction,” last night after she went to sleep I set a timer for five minutes, inserted one of the Binkies into my mouth, and, as God is my witness, I sucked.

  What follows is a rough transcript of my thoughts during that time:

  Breathe . . . suck . . .

  Breathe . . . suck . . .

  What the shitting shit am I doing? What if the government is recording me through the baby monitor, and this ends up going viral on Facebook or Twitter or some other site I’m too unhip to know about?! Though this is far from the dumbest thing I have ever done, it will ruin me!

  Get a hold of yourself, Stein . . . You’re doing this for your child. Any loving, neurotic parent would do the same. Stay with this.

  Breathe . . . suck . . .

  Breathe . . . suck . . .

  Wow. I suck loudly.

  Okay . . . Now I’ve got a good groove going.

  Breathe . . . suck . . .

  This actually feels sort of nice.

  Mmmmkay. Just gonna let my mind wander . . .

  Breathe . . . suck . . . breathe . . . suck . . .

  Wow, this takes me back to my college days . . . Except this thing would’ve been lit and I’d have been laughing hysterically at a piece of cheddar cheese.

  Breathe . . . suck . . .

  It feels so tiny in my mouth. Huh. I wonder how my ex-boyfriend Doug is doing?

  Breathe . . . suck . . .

  I feel really . . . good. And . . . satisfied. Just sucking and “being” like this, I feel so powerful, as though I could do anything . . . Like join the Peace Corps! Or move to Ghana! Or help birth a two-headed wildebeest!

  I could really get used to this. I wonder if they make these in chocolate flav—

  And there goes the alarm.

  The baby crack experiment is over.

  It was definitely an interesting, illuminating, and not altogether unpleasant experience. In the long run, however, I don’t think it’s for me; on the other hand, neither is macramé, and I didn’t kick my grandma to the curb over that.

  So the kid likes to suck on a plastic teat. Who cares? We all have our guilty pleasures. As a child I used to pick up chewed gum from the sidewalk and eat it. Didn’t hurt me in the long run; if anything, it probably strengthened my immune system, and most certainly helped me to become a thrifty consumer. Back in elementary school, (Name Redacted) was a well-known booger eater but then grew up to become a respected member of Canadian Parliament—so really, who are we to judge?

  NOVEMBER 11, 2010

  During a walk today an old lady smiled at us, “My, my, isn’t she a little bit old for a passy?” I wanted to respond, “As a matter of fact, you righteous old gasbag, yes she is!” But I didn’t. And when an under-three-year-old at the park yelled at my now almost-four-year-old sucking on her pacifier, “WHY YOU SUCK ON DAT? DON’T DO DAT!” I suppressed my desire to walk right up to him and slap his mother.

  I can deal with my own judgment—but now the ass-faces of the world are weighing in.

  So I did what I always do when wrestling with a deeply troubling parenting concern: I turned to the opinions of perfect strangers and faceless trolls. This time, however, the Internet was most helpful, and I learned about “The Binky Fairy,” a recent Tooth Fairy–adjacent addition to popular kid bamboozlery.

  As per the “mythology,” I tell the child all about the magical creature who comes in the night to take Binkies from big kids so that she can give them to poor, unfortunate babies without Binkies—and in their place leaves unimagined treasures.

  The child was intrigued. “HOW WILL I KNOW WHEN SHE’S COMING?” she asked. I offered to text the Binky Fairy and check on her availability.

  “Looks like she has an opening tonight . . .”

  Surprisingly, the kid said she was ready.

  We’re going for it. Tonight!

  7:30 P.M.

  We put the Binkies in a special box and left it on her dresser. She said she’s happy for the baby who will get her Binky, then asked how big and strong the Binky Fairy is, and will she be using a sleigh to bring all those treasures?

  I just turned out the light. Shouldn’t be long now.

  8:47 P.M.

  Was surprised to find her awake, but just barely. Her eyes were drooping. NOW, it shouldn’t be long, now.

  10:06 P.M.

  MAYDAY! MAYDAY! THE WHEELS ARE OFF THE WAGON! The kid is jumping up and down on her bed, wild-eyed; she’s wired and babbling aggressively. She’s not upset—but it seems she has forgotten how to sleep. Is this what happens when a heroin addict goes through withdrawal?

  10:25 P.M.

  I rubbed her back until my hands were chafed. She finally passed out face-first into her pillow.

  SHIT! Just realized I have no Binky Fairy booty to seal the deal.

  Just yelled to the husband, “HOLD DOWN THE FORT!”—am off to the late-night Target that’s open ’til 11:00. Wish me luck!

  10:52 P.M.

  TARGET

  NOT-SO-GREAT AREA OF TOWN

  I grab a cart, careening through the aisles toward the toy section . . . double back to grab some toilet paper and a jar of Nutella (on special) . . . then on to the aisles filled with pink, where I shop like one of those contestants on a daytime game show, grabbing whatever I can get my hands on. A pink bedazzled pillow. A Barbie book. A hula hoop. And the first sparkly greeting card I see, one that says “CONGRATULATIONS TO A FINE BOY ON HIS BAR MITZVAH,” because who gives a snot, she can’t read yet.

  I check out, the last customer in the store, and speed home, praying to God that I don’t get carjacked by gang-bangers who will kill me when all I have to offer is a carload of pink crap and an overdrawn ATM card.

  Once home I compose a “letter” from the Binky Fairy. In it I go into great detail about the intended Binky recipient—she’s got a real sob story: she’s got no Binky, no toys. I even drop hints that she’s legally blind. If my kid isn’t moved by this, then she’s not human.

  7:00 A.M.

  Was awakened by the kid screaming.

  “SHE CAME! THE BINKY FAIRY CAME!”

  She was ecstatic about the gifts left in her room and listened patiently as I read aloud the letter from the Binky Fairy, stuttering and stumbling as I did in order to maintain the illusion that I’ve never seen it before (I am nothing if not a committed liar).

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 2010

  The weekend was a little rough—there were a few tears and some “WHY DID B HAVE TO GO?’s,” but the child seems to have accepted her new normal. Also, turns out she’s pretty good with the hula hoop.

  As we dropped the kid off at preschool we watched as she told her friends all about her visit from the Binky Fairy. Rebecca—a loud-talking redhead with a tough-sounding lisp—listened with interest. Then Rebecca asked point-blank, “WHY DON’T YOU JUTH THUCK YOUR THUMB?” and demonstrated, shoving her paint-covered thumb into her mouth.

  And just like
that, our former pacifier addict, the altruistic Binky donor, became one of the most committed thumb suckers the world has ever known.

  *As painfully detailed in Chapter 3, “Spoiled Milk.”

  fifteen

  THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR

  The month before she turned three, my daughter asked me the question that I had been fearing ever since she was a glimmer in my fallopian tube: “What’s Christmas?” she asked. When I opened my mouth to answer, all that came out was a raspy, choking sound. It was more awkward than the time she saw me coming out of the shower and asked me why I was wearing socks on my “kiki.”*

  Here’s the thing: as we’ve established, I was born to a pair of dope-smoking, radical hippie Jewish intellectuals in Winnipeg, Canada. As has not been established, I didn’t know a lot of Jews in Winnipeg, Canada, and I knew even fewer dope-smoking, radical hippie intellectual ones.*

  My parents were “free thinkers” (when they weren’t stoned, anyway) and felt that organized religion was a “thin construct of a shallow, emotionally enfeebled culture.” As a kid I didn’t have the foggiest idea what that meant (I still don’t), but it didn’t matter because on Sunday mornings while my friends were waking up at seven, pulling on itchy wool dresses and dusty tights for church, I was cocooned in a warm blankie, laughing at Bugs Bunny cartoons while jamming spoonfuls of Count Chocula into my yap. There I was, all those Sunday mornings, gloating at my good fortune with brown marshmallows stuck in my teeth.

  And then December would roll around.

  Hanukkah would slide past our house without a nod, but I was fine with that. Since I didn’t know any other Jews—for a while I considered them mythical creatures—as far as I was concerned, Hanukkah was the weird, distant, creepy mouth breather of an uncle that you don’t want to spend one night with, never mind eight.

  No, my soul-scarring pain belonged to Christmas. My holy grail day, the one holiday I desired more than anything in the world. The songs! The gingerbread! And the trees. All those adolescent pines garishly adorned with tinsel, lights, and big shiny balls, so wrong yet so right, as tasteless and tawdry as a ten-year-old Brooke Shields in high heels and hooker makeup. Oh, Christmas Tree indeed!

  But in the Stein household, Christmas was the most despicable of religious holidays. My parents rejected its rampant, crass commercialization, its Judeo-Christian-fascist hypocrisy (their indecipherable phrasing, not mine), though I think they mostly just resented having to spend time with extended family who didn’t approve of their “alternative lifestyle” (i.e., their frequent consumption of pot brownies).

  But my parents, God (or whoever) bless ’em, had the presence of mind to recognize that, even though they had their principles, our family was weird enough already. Depriving their kids of presents during the holiday season, well, that was just one toke over the line.

  And lo, “Stein Day” came to be.

  “Stein Day” fell on December 26 (Boxing Day, a.k.a., “The Great Canadian Fire Sale”), when sometime around midafternoon, Mom, Dad, and the big blue Rambler station wagon would pull into the garage, loaded down with half-price Legos, out-of-the-box Erector Sets, and several bags of Chinese food. And while the kids happily played with their loot, Mom and Dad would spoon out the chop suey and smoke a joint or two or seven, and that was that. Happy Stein Day, everybody! No gate-crashing relatives stinking up the bathroom, no toasts about gross things like family togetherness, no commie-fascist-Hallmark bullshit. Just fun!

  By the time I was old enough to appreciate it, Stein Day had evolved into something even more casual, if that’s possible (and yes, it was). My teenage brothers couldn’t be paid to hang out with their parents, even if they did have the best pot in town. And the magical, cavernous Rambler, now deceased, had been replaced by a VW Bug in which my mom would drive me to Kmart, where she would hand me twenty bucks with the instructions to “get yourself something and bring me back the change.”

  While I truly appreciated the strings-free cash, I wanted more. More what, I didn’t quite know. Just more something.

  The year I turned eleven I asked my mom if we could take a crack at this whole Christmas thing, maybe get a small tree? She laughed long and hard and then gave me her stock answer of “Don’t be ridiculous,” because underneath all that tie-dye beat the heart of a pragmatic dictator.

  That was the moment that my personal search for Yuletide satisfaction began.

  On Christmas morning, before anyone in my house was awake, I’d shower, get dressed in my fanciest duds and snow boots, then leave the house to make my rounds. I’d have breakfast with the Taylors, brunch with the Herberts, and dinner with the Ricketts.

  After gorging myself at each stop, I’d do a little reconnaissance, using the opportunity to test-drive all that freshly unwrapped Christmas booty (even though I’d deemed “Stein Day” lacking, all spiritual dissatisfaction aside I did have twenty dollars of toys to pick out). It’s how I learned that Sea Monkeys suffer from a horrible case of false advertising and that an Easy-Bake Oven, even if it is just a lightbulb encased in plastic, is pretty damned spectacular.

  An unexpected (but welcome) side effect of my Christmas Day Drop-In tactic was that I’d invariably cash in on the sympathies of my friends’ parents, who were completely confused and horrified by the notion of “Stein Day,” which meant I’d usually get sent home with at least one floater gift from under each tree. (As a result, to this day, I have enough address books, photo albums, and Santa-shaped candles to last me the rest of my life.)

  And then I’d walk home with a bellyful of Christmas goose and fruitcake and armfuls of gifts and leftover mincemeat pie, but with an odd feeling, like I’d cheated the system but still didn’t win.

  Then when I turned fifteen, something remarkable happened—well, remarkable for a fifteen-year-old. I fell madly in something-like-love with a boy who wooed me by reading to me from his hip youth Bible, The Way (which featured colored photos of Jesus, who, it turns out, was a stone-cold fox). On our first Christmas Eve together, he took me to his church. It was a small, homey Presbyterian joint, and as we held hands and sang songs about frankincense and reindeer, I felt a deep sense of warmth and belonging. The feeling remained, even after we left the church, and I felt it later that night while he was feeling me up in the backseat of his Pontiac, my heart overflowing with hormones, emotion, and the true spirit of Christmas.

  Unfortunately, my swollen heart was mutilated about a week later when he broke it off, saying that he didn’t have enough love in his heart for both Jesus and me. Just like that, my own private Christmas was ruined. That year, the year that Jesus stole my boyfriend (then subsequently gave him to Tanya Bendarchuk), was the year I made peace with the fact that I would never make peace with Christmas.

  And I didn’t. As I exited puberty and entered adulthood, every year became an experimental improvisation of holiday revelry; one year I’d put up a tree and decorate it ironically with sneakers and fake mustaches; the next year I’d ignore it entirely. Sure, I’d enjoy a slice of Christmas ham when offered, and who was I to say no to a mug of five-thousand-calorie eggnog? But the older I got, the more estranged we became. Christmas was like a Facebook friend that I’d stalk now and then, but I wouldn’t dream of inviting him to crash at my house for a week.

  By the time the husband showed up, I was long past my Christmas obsession.

  Enter, the kid.

  The husband and I agreed that we should probably mark the holiday season in some way, because, like my parents, we’re weird enough already. I had a feeling it would end up looking a lot like Stein Day;* maybe we’d throw a few chocolate dreidels into the mix, but beyond that I figured we’d be loading up the Rambler and gorging ourselves on lo mein.

  And that’s exactly what we did.

  For exactly one year.

  Because (if you’re like us) one day you discover that children are humans with opinions and questions of their own, and that your lazy nonsolution is not a solution at all.
>
  And while I did come to appreciate “Stein Day” (and not just for its cocktail-party conversation appeal), it didn’t fit my new family: For one, marijuana makes me paranoid 82 percent of the time. And second, half of the people in my marriage were bar mitzvahed when they were thirteen. Add in the fact that the husband (a.k.a. the bar-mitzvah boy) began to feel what I now understand is a common experience of new parents—the pull of his religious roots. And so we found a sweet little Jewish preschool, a block from Chicago’s Wrigley Field. A place where the kid could learn about Jewish holidays, tradition, and identity in an open, welcoming environment, and we could snack on the occasional loaf of challah as we strolled home through the throngs of drunk and disorderly Cubs fans.

  We had chosen our team (Judaism/Cubbies); we had a direction; we were finally on a path.

  So when the almost-four-year-old child asked, “WHY CAN’T WE GET A CHRISTMAS TREE?”—our united-front answer, “Because we’re Jewish,” was the end of the conversation. Or at least it should have been.

  Cut to: a Tuesday afternoon in mid-December. I was spending a delightful afternoon shopping for HVAC filters at the local Home Depot when I became lost among the forty acres of Christmas-decoration displays and stopped in my tracks at the sight of a sparkly bush/tree/plant in a pot no taller than me.

  It was spindly, prickly, and shapeless. This wasn’t a Christmas Tree; it wasn’t a Hanukkah Bush. It was a glorious HOLIDAY SHRUB, and though I can’t quite explain what came over me, in that moment I realized that it was the answer to all of our/my prayers.

  Ten minutes later I found myself forty dollars poorer, but one Holiday-Shrub-jammed-into-the-back-of-our-SUV richer. I headed out of the parking lot and then called the husband to give him the great news!

  He didn’t see it as great news. He was actually kinda annoyed that I’d made an executive decision on a subject over which we would need at least a week of arguing and obsessing.