Pudd’ng’s life after quitting ‘breastfeeders club’

“Saturday, November 18, 2006 - Thursday, November, 20, 2008.” That is how the epitaph reads. And the inscription is on the tombstone where Pudd’ng buried breastfeeding.

Weaning Pudd’ng off breastfeeding - permanently - was both hard and easy. Hard because, previously, our methods had elements of coercion written all over them.

We thought making the transition would be akin to getting a strongman from a banana republic to retire willingly. And easy because, when she finally did quit, we didn’t see it coming. Our daughter pulled a classic Mandela Move: one moment she was occupying the nipple, the next she left it vacant.

“We’re going to ‘rendition’ you to grandma’s place and leave you there for three days,” Tenderoni usually teased our daughter, who, thank heavens, couldn’t understand the coup her parents were plotting.

“Three days,” we’d repeat, while wagging three fingers in Pudd’ng’s face.
To our amusement, what was meant to be a threat of temporary exile on an island flowing without breast milk turned into a farce.

“Thih dess,” our daughter would imitate us, wagging three little fingers in our faces.
“Tumepatikana,” we collectively sighed, meaning, we had been had.

We never got down to actualising our “thih dess” threat, and our Pudd’ng had a field day, every single day. What worried us was the fact that she was poor eater by choice, because, it seems, she knew her source of replenishment was guaranteed. And the look on her face when she was breastfeeding was one of pure bliss.

Later, I learned that this is occasioned by what is known as hindmilk; a thicker milk that comes after the baby has been nursing for several minutes, and whose contents lulls one’s Pudd’ng into sleeping.

There were hilarious moments, though, like the one I liked referring to as “lost and found“. This would happen when, say, I was sleeping with Pudd’ng after Mum had woken up earlier to do household chores.

If our daughter was thirsty, she’d start looking for “her quenchers“, and in the process grab and feel my chest. At such times, her eyes would be closed and lips pursed, obviously on the ready to start suckling as soon as she found what was lost.

My child rights activist alter ego also got me into fixes with Tenderoni more times than I can remember.

“You’re making me look like the bad cop,” Tenderoni usually complained whenever I urged her to please breastfeed our daughter, barely minutes after the little girl had refused to eat.

“Daddy no!” Pudd’ng would screech at me, reading Mum’s mood - wrongly - to pin me as the antagonist.
Lesson learned: when two hens are pecking at each other, don’t be caught between.

Those days are slowly becoming specks in our rear-view mirror. Last November when Tenderoni travelled upcountry for the funeral of her grandfather, the “thih dess” plot automatically fell into place.

“Will you manage?” Tenderoni kept asking, adding that I was going to have a big fight on my breasts … I mean, hands.
“Do I look scared?” I posited, although the fluttering butterflies in my belly were threatening to call my bluff.

And, in the end, what we thought would be a down-and-dirty affair became a walkover. Well, at least for us. I can’t say the same for Pudd’ng.
“Umepatikana!” we’ve since been parroting to Pudd’ng, who’s been smiling ruefully like she understands us.

Poor chile’. Some things don’t need meticulous planning. They happen when they’re supposed to happen.

Now that Pudd’ng can’t use breastfeeding as a crutch, her eating habits have improved. She may take, um, “thih dess” to clear her plate, but she’s less fussier. And, prior to feeding time, I don’t chant war songs and flex my muscles anymore.

“We should take her upcountry, let her eat from the communal platter for a week and she’ll learn the importance of eating chap-chap,” we used to joke.

Hell, yeah. That’s akin to starving our daughter. Upcountry kids don’t act up when food’s on the table, and our sluggish daughter would only see the crumbs, if any, flying through the air.
Pudd’ng’s sleeping habits have also improved.

Yup. Baby girl still tosses and turns in bed - (probably, as a sleep-inducing ploy, counting the creamy drops of hindmilk she’s missing out on) - before finally falling asleep. And once she’s asleep, it’s zzz till almost mid-morning.

This means we have to adjust her feeding strategy. She must stuff well at night before she goes to bed, plus feed frequently during the day.

Last night Pudd’ng unleashed her “other side”. Tenderoni fed her sukuma wiki and ugali, after which she was to take sour milk, and top it up with watermelon. But she demanded to have bite-sized pieces of ugali on a saucer, which she ate only after she had cleared the milk and watermelon.

At one point, Tenderoni tried touching the ugali, only to be stopped by an ear-piercing scream. I eat our words. Our Pudd’ng can make the hungriest upcountry kid to look like a Barbie doll.

Does Pudd’ng have withdrawal symptoms if she sees another baby breastfeeding? I guess. Hey, how can she not salivate? Tenderoni says our daughter is still in denial and we would make a big blunder if we allowed her to as much as kiss Mum’s nipple.

And you can tell what’s going through our daughter’s mind when Mum teases her and lets her to come near what was her most favourite dish for the first two years and two days of her life. The look in her eyes say it all: “By taking away my hindmilk, you guys kicked me in the behind.”

Speaking of kicks, we’ve got two of our own, both courtesy of our daughter giving up “nyo-nyo“.

The first is obvious: our bed is freer now, because Pudd’ng - who used to hog our bed space with her strange sleeping styles - is resettled in her cot. And two; we’ve reclaimed our intimate life, or what was left of it.