Goodbye, Tissa.

Tissa is a local celebrity here on Old Barn Ct. If Finny is feeling a little tired, a little blue, a little bored with his mundane lifestyle of choo-choos and measuring cups, as soon as Tissa makes her appearance, gray skies clear up. If nightmares plague his sleep or a shiver wakes him from his slumber, all it takes is a little Tissa to immediately lull him back to sleep. If Catholic mass is feeling long and stiff and all together just too quiet and contemplative, all we need is our good friend Tissa to make the time pass a little bit faster.

So, when I tell you that Tissa doesn’t charge us a dime for her services and then when I tell you I let Tissa go last Friday, told her her services were no longer needed here, you might exclaim, “How on earth could you let such a good thing go?!”

My answer to you would be, “Excellent question.”

What, Jill, were things getting too easy for you around here? Was Finny sleeping too well these days? You missed the old days of terrible teething and hour long naps? Were you getting bored with your three hour chunk of time to yourself? Feeling disappointed when Finny would go to bed without so much as a whimper of protest?

No, it was none of these things. I got rid of Tissa because suddenly she had a name, this inexplicable name, Tissa. Up until this point, Tissa had simply been Finny’s generic old paci that he took at naps and at bed time, but suddenly, he began to call out for her at all hours of the day begging for Tissa, Tissa, Tissa! Nightly, we’d hear, around 4 a.m., Finny calling out, “Tissa, Tissa, Tissa!” I knew it could only mean one thing: addiction, dependence, attachment. I needed to put a stop to it.

So I sat down in front of the internet and read and read and read. There was story upon story about how parents got their babies and toddlers to part with their pacis. Some parents cut off the tips of the binkies so that they were no longer appealing. I only needed to read one story about how this is a choking hazard to convince me that this was not the approach for me. Some moms said take it before they’re one, some said take it when they’re two, three, four. Some said just throw it away. Some said talk about it. Tell them the Binkie fairy is coming. Some said it ruins their teeth. Some said it’s not a big deal. But many said when you make the decision to take it, one thing’s for sure, you’ve got to stick to it.

So, I did it. Last Friday morning when Finny woke up, I told him today we were going to say bye, bye to Tissa. “Tissa is going to be with the babies,” I said to my eighteen-month-old son, who looked back at me with his baby face and repeated, “Bah-bye Tissa. Baby. Tissa. Bah-bye.”

And then he clung to my side all morning and cried. So, we went to Target and I bought him three new trains, thinking a shiny new choo-choo in the Tissa cup would be enough to distract him from the fact that Tissa was no longer there. But at nap time, when I put him in his crib, he clung to his new choo-choo and shook the rails of his bed crying out, “Tissa, Tissa, Tissa!”

I closed the door and paced across the kitchen floor. I cleaned furiously hoping that by the time I turned off the vacuum, the crying would be over and he would be asleep. The crying continued. I went out on the deck with my book and a cup of coffee thinking by the time I finished a chapter and came back in, the crying would be over. The crying continued. Two hours passed and I wondered, at what point will the neighbors call Children’s Services? At two and a half hours, I could endure it no longer, and I went in and pulled my tired, frazzled, hoarse baby out of bed.

David called, “Maybe we shouldn’t take it now. Maybe it’s not the time.”

“No, I’m in it to win it,” I answered. “When you make the decision to take it, you’ve got to stick to it.”

So we went about our day drawing with chalk, blowing bubbles, and playing with choo-choos and all the while Finny participated in a sort of nap-starved daze.

All day long, he wouldn’t eat, he wouldn’t sleep, and he pooped five times, more than he’s ever pooped in a day in his life.

Finally, it was time for bed. He cried through his entire bath, a part of the day, he usually loves. And then, we sat in his rocker and we read books and he relaxed and he listened. But when I got to the part about saying our prayers, the part he knows comes right before bed, he burst into tears. But I was in it to win it, so I put him in bed and watched as he shook his crib rails, crying, dark circles framing his eyes. I walked out of the room strong, determined, in charge.

As I sat downstairs, listening to my tired baby cry, I got on the internet and looked up more stories. But this time, I noticed something else. I saw story upon story of people who took the Tissa without tears. Parents who said it was actually no big deal. Parents whose children were two and three years old. Old enough to understand, to talk it out.

And then, with a giant sigh, I let myself off the hook. If it felt so awful, if it felt so traumatic, if it felt like the wrong decision, why should I stick to it?

So I called up old Tissa, told her I’d made a mistake and begged her to come back. She agreed and the moment she hit Finny’s lips, he collapsed in his crib, eyes closed, sound asleep within no more than a second.

Maybe I’m a fool for trying to take it, maybe I’m a softy for giving it back, and maybe, just maybe, I did exactly what I was supposed to do in this challenging job of parenting: trial and error.

Welcome back, Tissa. We love you, we missed you, please stay a little longer.