You may have read me philosophising the other day on the subject on my son’s dummy (dodie/pacifier/paci/soother/nuk/noing/binkie. And I actually don’t know why we call it a dummy in Aussie Land, remind me to consult with the Google God. Edit– Google God knows nothing. Anyone else?).
Well, the magical, mystical dummy fairy visited the Purple House that very afternoon. She invisibly deposited one super cool kid’s tool set, complete with the obligatory hammer, pliers and …erm… angle grinder; and three Kinder Surprise eggs (nicely done Man, that’s lateral thinking for you!) to the kitchen table.
The Chop was ecstatic. Tools are his thing. As you can see, he uses them to fix his car.
So, while Chop was getting his grease monkey vibes going on, the Dummy Fairy floated up the stairs to the Chop’s room and removed every single last dummy. Eight of them in all. Huzzah!
Later that night…..
“Dodie! Want dodie! Need dodie!”
“No, the dummy fairy took it, remember? She bought you tools.”
20 minutes later, I creep back up the stairs. the child is curled up, snug in his bed, surrounded by plastic tools and bolts. He is wearing the safety goggles that came with the tool kit. (No, I didn’t get a photo of that, more’s the pity. I was creeping, remember? A camera flash may have given the game away..)
I creep back downstairs. Victorious. Congratulating myself, slapping myself on the back to ring out my good fortune. I even joyfully announce on FaceBook that Operation Dummy Drop has been a total success.
And that’s when I hear laughter. Victorious, joyful laughter. Coming from the direction of my lovely little Chop’s room.
I creep apprehensively up the stairs. Only to be met by the Chop, is his doorway, dummy in his outstretched hand.
As it turns out, our Dummy Fairy is in roughly the same caliber as our cleaning fairy. Useless. She forgot to do a thorough inspection the Chop’s entire room. And missed a dummy, tucked away in the back of a Little Tykes semi trailer.
I’ll admit, I was a little bit… relieved. I’ve never had a problem with his dummy. And it is just the last little part of him left that still the tiny baby that used to fit in the crook of my arm. (Apart from, ya know, the toilet training, but I’m not quite so sentimental about that).
So, it’s back to square one. At least we’ve reduced the dummy-load from nine to just one. I have the other eight furtively tucked away in our Harry Potter cupboard (that’s the one under the stairs). I can’t bring myself to throw them away, just in case of an emergency. Like the last dummy standing going AWOL. Yep, I’m a coward like that.
Whatever. The dummy fairy will be making another appearance in the Purple House very, very soon, armed with tooth rot and cheap, singing, whirring plastic stuff, to take the last of the dodies to a little baby who needs it. Because the Chop is a big boy now. Right….?
We’ll see. I’m hoping the agency sends us a more competent fairy this time. Kinda. They really better get a handle of their quality of staffing soon, or imagine what our tooth fairy is going to be like.