I didn’t even think to explain to him what it was or to warn him to not touch it.  Max grabbed the curling iron (hot and not using the handle) and said “what is this?”, which was just long enough for him to register the searing heat piercing his skin. He dropped the curling iron and began screaming.  He whaled. He hyper-ventilated. He thrashed and kicked and screamed and begged for Daddy.  This display of audible pain, that could only rival that of a woman giving natural childbirth, eventually ebbed and then ceased — AFTER AN HOUR AND A HALF.   David had Max’s hand soaking in ice water with Tylenol forced down his throat and the promise of M&Ms.  Tiny blisters spotted his finger tips.   After twenty minutes of soaking and half a bag of M&Ms Max slipped off the bar stools and into the family room to play video games with his sister but not before he turned to David and I and said, “Thanks for all the help”.   As if somehow he was surprised that we took the time out of our busy schedule to help a complete stranger.

Everybody told us she would out grow it.  That kids don’t enter college sucking on their fingers. She would start school and that would be the end of it.  Well, here we sit with less than two months of the school year to finish and my 7 year old is still sucking on her fingers.  Sigh.  The fingernails on her index finger and second digit have never grown.  She has divots at her first knuckle where her teeth rest.  But it was this latest bout of strep throat that finally did it.  She needed to stop.  It was a source for germ transmission and possible infection.

David: Lucy, it is time for you to stop sucking your fingers

Lucy: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

David: Baby, you need to listen to me.  You are ready to quit, the time has come. You are too big of a girl, and that is how you get germs and as a result sick.  However, I want YOU to make this decision, I don’t want to make it for you.  So, take some time to think about it and then come and tell me when you’re ready.

Me: And after a week of not sucking your fingers I’ll take you to Chuck E. Cheese.

Lucy: CHUCK E CHEESE? REALLY? CAN KATIE COME?

Me: Sure.

And that is how it started – part bribery, part inspiration.  As the week progressed there were a couple of emotional outbursts that were marked by Lucy whining at the top of her lungs “I CAN’T TAKE IT ANY LONGER!!!!!” But, even that was easily diverted by discussions of the forbidden Chuck E. Cheese.

It has been two weeks since we started this adventure with Lucy and she is now finger-sucking free. Her fingers are starting to heal and even she doesn’t think much about it any longer.  It seems so anti-climactic now. Honestly, if I knew it would be so easy I would have confronted the issue sooner.

And yet we have passed another childhood milestone – one more road marker towards adulthood.

From the time Lucy was old enough to talk she had no patience for make believe play. She didn’t understand the purpose of dress-up and didn’t know why you would make dolls talk when obviously they cannot.  If a vivid imagination is a sign of genius then I’m not quite sure what to say about Lucy’s intellectual abilities.

Max, on the contrary, has always had a robust imaginary world. He can spend hours with a handful of army men and a couch. He has perfected the sound effects, different voices and all the accouterments that come with pretend play.  His stuffed friends get sick and need help, his bed is a pirate ship one day and a space ship the next. The conflict emerges when these two worlds collide:

Max: “Freddy bear is sick and so I put a bandage on him”

Lucy: “Does he have bones?”

Max: “yes”

Lucy: “If he does then why is he filled with fluff?”

Max: (frustrated) “cuz he does!!”

Max feels the need to play in private, away from the judging eyes of his sister who has little understanding or willingness to go along with his imaginary world. And then came Harper.

Harper, at the small age of one, LOVES her baby dolls.  She holds her baby and quietly whispers; “baby”.  She gives kisses and gentle touches and carries her baby doll around the house.  Her imaginary world has already begun and now Lucy – always the dominant player in the house – is on the outside.  Her baby brother and sister happily exist in an imaginary world that Lucy doesn’t understand. A place where baby dolls have babies for mothers.  In this moment of vulnerability Lucy sweetly asked me; “Mommy, when you were little did you play house?” and I honestly replied, “No”. As relief washed over her a smile spread across her lips and she said “I don’t like to play house either”.  In that small moment of confidence Lucy recognized that perhaps I’m the only one who understands.

Dear Lucy,

I’m writing you this letter because at some point  you are going to turn to me and say in the bitter voice of a teenager; “I’m NOT responsible for Max”.  You’re not responsible for Max. I know this. I’ve always known this.  However, I want you to understand what seven year old Lucy is like and why you might feel that way in the future.

You have always taken it upon yourself to take care of and watch after your brother.  We’ve NEVER asked you to do this, you have always just done it.  You have willingly given up toys, time, food, and favorite things to keep him happy. You share your bed, your treats, your candy, and your time with mommy and daddy  without prompting. YOU have chosen to be responsible for your brother. YOU have chosen to correct his wrong behavior, run to his side when he needs help, pour him his milk, help him get dressed and teach him his alphabet.

Your need to care and protect Max hit a fever pitch after he was admitted to the hospital at age 3 due to rotavirus.  He went to the doctor and didn’t come back – and neither did Mommy – for three days.  Although we have explained to you many, many times that his illness was not serious and that it is unlikely that would happen again you still seem rather concerned for your brother’s overall health, safety and well being.

I want you to know now – right now – that you are free to let go of that responsibility whenever you choose.  You are NOT responsible for your brother’s happiness and/or well being.  He is his own individual person and is fully capable of achieving his own happiness without you constantly reminding him of his failures to obey the rules or how he should be more safe.  He does not need you telling him that fairy tales aren’t real, that sharks don’t live in his bedroom carpet or that he shouldn’t drink his milk too fast.

You cannot keep him safe. It is not your job. Love him. Be his friend, but leave the mothering and worrying to me.  I release you.

I never understood peer pressure.  David often tells me that my immunity to peer pressure is my “super power” a quality that makes me invincible.  I never cared enough what other people thought or frankly felt the need to belong bad enough that peer pressure ever affected me. As a matter of fact the more somebody pushed me to do something the less likely I was to do it — I’m still this way.  It infuriates David because I cannot be cajoled or persuaded to do anything that I fundamentally don’t want to do.  Our ongoing feud about my refusal to drink coffee with him will be an argument that our children will be talking about years after we both die.  David insists and I resist.

I’ve always been rather proud of this characteristic. I suppose I’ve always felt that it was a sign of my personal strength and confidence.  David has always thought that it was more a reflection of my pride and stubbornness. Either way, it is a quality that has served me well and I have no intention of shedding it any time soon — that is until today.

Lucy has a lose tooth.  When I say “lose” I mean she has a tooth that is defying physics by continuing to be lodged in her mouth.  We cannot seem to figure out how this tooth has managed to stay in for as long as it has.  She refuses to pull it.  She refuses to let us pull it.  This morning as the five of us were lazily sprawled on the couch I declared with authority “Lucy, pull that tooth today!!” David, quickly chimed in with his booming Daddy voice, “YES, YES, PULL THE TOOTH!!” We were trying to achieve a sort of festive momentum that would propel her into yanking the tooth out before she swallowed it by accident.  Lucy, feeling the pressure of family scurried into a corner and yelled “I CANNOT BE TALKED INTO PULLING MY TOOTH!! AS LONG AS YOU KEEP ASKING ME I WON’T DO IT!!”  and then silence.

I threw my head back and roared with laughter.  God is funny.