This is the rap that 2 month old Jack used to sing to his papa. It came from the brain of his homey, rap-genius mama:

Yo Yo Yo

My name is Jackabee

I’m a baby an’ I like my pacibee

When I see the otha babies I say

HEY!

To all my peeps in their cribs.

Hey. Hey. Hey.

I would pull up his hood, make him squat down while he sang it (supporting his back against my tummy, because he was, after all, only 2 months) and made him to rap arm motions to it, to make it authentic. Yeah, I’m such a cool mom. He’s NEVER going to be embarrassed of me.

Jack’s cool rap has made its internet debut because I’m slowly taking Jack off the pacibee. I feel sorry for him, but I don’t want him to have messed up teeth or have an addiction to it that’s harder to break later on. When I told my mom, bless her sweet little soul, she gave me the puppy dog look, “But Lauren, he’s so little…Just let him have it at nap time. You sucked your thumb until you were five and you didn’t turn out so bad!”

“Yeah, mom, unless you thought it was great fun to pay $5000 for braces? Or how I’m going to have to get braces again before my messed up jaw alignment that the first braces never fixed makes my jaw actually fall off my face (INVISALIGN, thankyouverymuch. My future braces mantra: I will get dates when I have braces…I will get dates when I have braces.). So…that little ordeal only turned out to be like $10,000 total. Yeah, totally worth it, right?”

“Whatever.”

I love her, but she’s like opposite-of-what-I-say “mom #2” that I have to cut out of my line of hearing in order to establish my own parenting style sometimes. Like when we go to my parents’ house and I tell Jack he can’t have another cookie, so he throws a fit. My reaction to fits? Ignore them. But what does he do? He goes to his grandma. Why? Because she caves. And she scoops him up against my will, all flattered at his usury, and runs off to the kitchen to get him a cookie or a warm glass of milk with a sprig of mint in it. Argh. She’s going to protest this post, too. But I just wrote about how I love her, right? Love you, mom. Plus, she’s a grandmother, and I will probably do these same things if I ever make it to grandmahood.

I tried cutting the tip off of one of his pacis at naptime yesterday. Oh man, he was mad! The entire parenting internet, which speaks only truth, spoke of how their kids just never wanted their paci anymore after they cut the tip off. They would just go, throw their paci in the trash, and skip happily off to the land of Big Boys and Girls Who Don’t Suck on Pacis. Not Jack.

I probably need to be more firm. But I give in at times, and then start thinking, “Well, we’re about to go through a big move, and maybe I shouldn’t introduce too much change all at once.”

But then I start thinking about what Nate would say, which would be: “Lauren, I don’t any genteel, sissy boy. He needs to learn how to take things like A MAN. What’s he sucking a paci for now, anyway? Let him cry. He’s a MAN.”

And I would say, “Honey, dearest, you’re ridiculous, love of my life. Because he’s a frikkin’ one year old. He’s not a man. And I don’t think he will suddenly be sapped of testosterone if I let him suck his paci until he’s 2.”

Nah, in all actuality, Jack would probably have him wrapped around his little finger by now, and Nate and Jack would have some sort of secret bonding society where they sneaked pacis (to Jack) and ate cookies all day. I’m just mean, then.

And so. The paci issue that I was firm on when I started writing this post is now yet to be confirmed at a later date. Dang. I ruined a perfectly good paci this morning, then.

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