The Maker was the only one of my three who wanted a pacifier, and in the long tradition of babies and their pacifiers, he called his “bops.” He was happiest with one in his mouth, a backup in his hand, and even more in pockets, or otherwise within reach. When he was old enough to realize we kept the supply in a bowl on top of the fridge, he would stand beneath there and demand “Aw bowe!” meaning, give me the whole bowl of bops and I mean immediately or a tantrum is forthcoming.
For the most part we complied, although the times his bop reliance annoyed us the most was either when he preferred to talk to us around the wedge of warm wet plastic, or when I wanted to take his picture. “Honey, take that bop out,” I would say, and he’d growl, comply, wait, and replug. You’d think I was asking him to freely donate all his toys to charity and forever go without juice, bananas, and candy.
Earlier this week I came across these two photos and felt only the weensiest bit guilty about having disturbed his minor utopia for a photo. Still makes me smile, though.