The beauty and pain of childish innocence

If I sat an innocence exam today, I would give the word, flunk, a whole new meaning.

That’s how adulthood has got me all-twisted. I see things in black and white. Or gray if I’m cornered. God’s original intention, as espoused by my daughter, was for my life to be multi-hued like a rainbow.

I’ve got to give it up to Pudd’ng. My daughter has never been to school, yet she can teach me oodles about innocence. She’s the epitome of blamelessness. Yup, I know the dictionary’s definition of innocence. What about its divine meaning? Man, I’m learning.

I believe that babies were sent from heaven — not just for procreation’s sake — but to remind adults that God is ever in the details.

Take my daughter, for instance. Pudd’ng doesn’t give a damn about some of the things that make her poor dad sprout gray hairs faster than an octogenarian, who has soaked his mane in a barrel of black dye.

The three — could be a couple more — sweetest cakes to my baby girl are a full tummy, healthiness and a dry diaper. Ice those with good old fashioned TLC and the little diva will compose you an ode in gibberish.

I’ve been looking at some things that make Pudd’ng’s innocence shine, and I’ve since lost count. Here we go …

Pudd’ng doesn’t care about my protestations about fatigue; that I need a breather because I’ve had a killer eight-to-five. For my daughter, when it’s time to play, it’s time to play. And play. No buts.

“Baba top, Baba top,” she yells if I tell her to return the used five-litre juice plastic bottles to the kitchen.

I bet you think I’m the luckiest dad in Eastlands because I have a cheering squad. Well, I am, though for different reasons. The word ‘top’ is Pudd’ng’s way of saying, ‘stop’.

She’s obsessed with the oddest of things. We use the bottles to store water because of rampant water shortages. To Pudd’ng, they provide some childish thrill whenever they’re empty.

“I give up,” I usually sigh, too dead beat to get off the couch and return the half dozen bottles to the kitchen.

You think your vodka can thrill? That’s because you’ve never seen my daughter. The water bottles are at times placed on dad’s head and chest. Peace is expensive, folks. Very expensive.

And that’s why I zip my big mouth and play possum, even if Pudd’ng heaves our two 100-litre water barrels on top of me. Thank God she’s not Superkid. Otherwise, my editor would have long set up a commission of inquiry to find out what happened to me.

Pudd’ng’s innocence can at times be trying. Our daughter doesn’t know that for some dads, some things on TV are matters of life and death. Okay, NDEs (near-death experiences). Just ask the footie freak in the office, or a movie buff like yours truly.

“Baba?” Pudd’ng called.

“Yes baby,” my eyes didn’t leave the small screen, although my lips would’ve done a ‘Yes Baby’ sermon, had it come down to that.

I was trying to guess what Will Smith would do as he locked himself and his son inside a subway’s loo after becoming homeless in the tear-jerking flick, “Pursuit of Happyness”.

Zap! The screen went black. I cursed Reddy Kilowatt. And then I saw the babyish smirk on Pudd’ng’s face, as she wagged the remote control.

“You!” I screamed as little Miss Misdemeanour sprinted towards the kitchen, thus commencing our sitcom.

“Mama?” she crooned at Tenderoni, then accusingly raised her left hand at me; “Baba”.

Innocence is bliss. Last time I checked, the words dead broke weren’t in Pudd’ng’s vocabulary. Our daughter doesn’t share our worries about bills. Pray, does she even have a ‘worry gene’? Nope.

She doesn’t doubt my ability to provide her with security. It’s a given. For her — just like those of us who trust God with seemingly impossible dreams — dad will provide everything in her list, regardless of what happens to the oil prices in the Middle East.

“Baba tima, tima,” Pudd’ng showed off last week when Tenderoni donned her with pretty black boots that gave out flashing lights on the sides.

‘Tima’ is her way of saying ’stima’, which in Kiswahili means electricity. She was fascinated by the way her boots were lighting up each time her heel hit the ground.

“I know we’d agreed that we wouldn’t buy her walkers this month … or the next,” Tenderoni explained, “but these boots can make a mum skip lunch for a month.”

She’s telling me. I’m the quintessential shoes freak. And a cutie like Pudd’ng can drive one to sacrifice so that one’s baby can cruise on Easy Street.

Pudd’ng’s innocence is godsend. It means nothing to our daughter that mum and dad are, temporarily, not on speaking terms. Hallo? We’re humans. We have ‘those days’.

Although our sweet little thing doesn’t know this, she’s like a bridge of gold that connects us, making us look at the b-i-g beautiful picture.

“Baba, dance,” she said, rocking to and fro, when a song started on the radio.

“Mama, dance,” she told Tenderoni.

It’s hard to ignore a baby, especially if she’s a sweetie like Pudd’ng, who is determined to unwittingly get you back in the groove.

I’ve heard folks theorise that they stick their precious necks in loveless relationships because of a baby. I believe my Pudd’ng is in the mix to make me realise what I ought to be; not where I ought to be.

Because, if we mutually look at our issues through our Pudd’ng’s unadulterated prism, we will perceive God. And then we’ll behold love. That’s what God’s all about. Love.

“I love you,” I told Tenderoni as our daughter played the chief role in bringing an end to our domestic Cold War through a song, a dance and childish innocence.

You got a baby? Good. Savour the innocence. It’s not everyday that God sends out personal reminders.