The Human Pacifier
Lu Hanessian
NJ USA
From NEW BEGINNINGS, Vol. 19 No. 1, January-February 2002, p. 14
I'm sitting in the rocker
with my son in the blue light of dawn. We've been at this a few weeks
now, getting to know each other after nine months of anticipation. I
am searching for feedback; a sign that I'm doing right by him, getting
closer to figuring out what ails him when he seems so inconsolable.
I hear voices. Well-meaning
voices telling me, advising me, warning me to not let this tiny boy
grab the reins and yank me down the race track. I look at the child
in my arms, his eyes slightly crossed as he tries to steady his gaze,
and I feel somehow, in spite of the fact that I've only been his mother
for forty-two days, that he gets it. I mean, he knows what he needs
more than I do. He is my sherpa guide, my compass.
He is barely out of my womb
when I am asked how long I plan to nurse. I look at Nicholas suckling
at my breast, and I ask him about his long-range plans. He burps.
He cries and I nurse him.
They warn me not to do this too much, or I'll become a "human pacifier."
They are friends, strangers, sometimes relatives. One neighbor is concerned
that my baby will learn to depend on me for comfort.
My baby never took to a pacifier,
or his thumb, or knuckle, or any plastic teething ring no matter how
fascinating the texture or color. He wants to nurse. He likes to stretch
his free arm upward and hook his fingers onto my tank top or bra, like
he's riding the train and that's his strap.
In his laid-back mood, he
nurses with both hands on his head, kind of massaging what little hair
he has, like he's giving himself a shampoo. Sometimes, he thumps his
chest then mine, like he Tarzan and me Jane. And sometimes, he's got
too much on his mind and he just lays his palm flat on his forehead.
My heart melts and breaks when, with his eyes closed, he reaches up
to my lips with his outstretched hand so I can kiss his fingertips while
we nurse in the shadows.
As the months pass, I learn
to let go of my ego, to get out of the way, and, not surprisingly, we
find our rhythm. Some days, we are tuning the instrument. Some days,
we make music. Some days, I feel out of tune with both of us. But there
is one constant amid the rapid changes of new motherhood, one thing
I can offer my child regardless of time, place, and circumstance: comfort.
He is lying in the crook
of my arm, nursing, after a long morning of cramps and gas. I feel so
relieved for both of us. He couldn't be more comfortable if he were
lying naked in a cloud. After my cyclone of emotions, from empathy to
confusion, anxiety, exasperation, and guilt, I finally feel calm. He
is at peace at last. For the moment, anyway. Sitting here nursing my
baby, he is pacified, yes, but so am I. Being a human pacifier works
both ways.
Nursing for comfort, his,
mine, and ours, is so much more than soothing him when he cries. When
we sit here after a difficult morning, after I've questioned my competence
as a new mother, wrestled down my nostalgia for a past where everything
seemed easier, struggled with tolerance and compassion and reminded
myself (sometimes out loud) that all will pass and he will be happy
and well-adjusted and remember none of his intestinal fury and my quiet
panic, the shallow-breathing, and lilting lullabies sung tentatively
over the shrill tones of his cry, I feel that nursing him in this slow
and fluid silence is all about emotional replenishment. He and I re-group
after the contradictions and ambivalence of that particular hour or
day or week. It feels to me, in these moments, like I am refueling myself,
bringing myself back to center, to the symbiosis that will dissipate
in tiny, imperceptible ways as he grows. And
it feels like he is, in these moments, reorienting himself, getting
comfortable in his skin, clearer about me and my intentions.
Letting my baby pacify himself
at my breast feels right to me because it feels so right to him. He
has made it abundantly clear that this is his chosen method of self-soothing.
He wants a pacifier that's human.
Last updated Wednesday, November 1, 2006 by njb.
Page last edited Sun Oct 14 09:29:48 UTC 2007.
