Yippee, it is a win-wean situation

I never thought I would ever have something in common with a politician but it would appear that myself and a certain senator might have a shared experience — we have both been frozen by people who refuse to listen to reason.

See, I am on that weaning tip because baby finally hit the six-month mark.

Our Ministry of Health recommends that mothers breastfeed exclusively fowr the first six months of their lives.

That is on the recommendation of the World Health Organisation (WHO).

Yes, the same WHO that is being accused for recommending a tetanus vaccine that “sterilises” women on the sly.

I got two tetanus shots while I was pregnant, which given recent events is a bit confusing.

Still, where there is smoke, there is usually fire.

But on to happier things.

Along with sampling her first meals, baby is also starting to propel herself headfirst.

You would think it was impossible to wade through a barrier of four oversized cushions, two pillows and a rolled up blanket, using your head as your primary means of motion.

You would be wrong.

Yeah, kids do the darndest things.

When she is not reinventing the crawl, she is refusing to eat, even though she is barely learned how the whole eating thing works.

COLD RECEPTION

I thought this next phase of her development was going to be a breeze, and it has been — a very chilly one.

Cold reception notwithstanding, I am determined to feed the child with something other than mother’s milk.

And she is determined to block me at every turn.

So she is sitting on my lap, with her bib on and a spoon wielding some pureed butternut at the ready.

I put on my brightest smile and bring the spoon to her mouth.

She snaps it shut.

“Open up baby. It is yum yummy foody woody,”

I say, giving it my best Donald Duck impression.

She looks up at me and I swear I can see a subtle lift in the region of her right eye brow.

TWEETY BIRD VOICE

“Ain’t nothing but a milk thing Ma’. What’s up with that yellow mess?”

I can almost hear her say.

I try again, this time in my best Tweety Bird voice.

“Nyum nyum nyum baby, eating is so much fun. Open up!”

The bright smile is faltering, as is my resolve.

This time, she turns her head away, mouth still clamped shut.

She looks in the direction of the TV, staring at the screen as if she would much rather keep up with the Kardashians.

“Got milk? Yeah, didn’t think so,” I imagine she is thinking.

But I refuse to admit defeat so I resort to bullying. “Child, you are getting on my last nerve! You had better eat this food or else!” She turns and looks at me, looking as innocent as the day she was born, giving the impression that we might be getting somewhere with this weaning thing.

The spoon is still hovering at the gates of heaven, waiting to be let in.

But then she blinks twice, and turns away again.

“Obviously, you didn’t hear me Ma’. Did I stutter?”

Please Lord, do not let me kill this child.

This goes on for a while before baby finally decides to give Mama a break.

At this point, I am considering calling the cops, because she clearly needs to be charged with something.

Her cooperation could not have come at a better time.

Gingerly, she opens her mouth, sticks out her tongue and has a hesitant taste.

WONDERLAND

She pauses for a few seconds, savouring the bouquet as one would a fine glass of wine, and then swallows.

I am tempted to run to the end of the room and fake a touchdown — that is how accomplished I feel.

I am not expecting her to indulge me any further but lo! and behold, the child opens her mouth without my prompting and moves her head forward.

She wants some more!

What did I do to deserve such good fortune?

She is making a meal of my yellow mess.

Surely it must be Christmas.

Chomp, chomp, chomp. Nom, nom, nom.

It has never been so fulfilling to watch another person eat.

She still likes her milk though, so Mama’s not off the hook yet. My bosom is still her wonderland.

But yeah, I should have figured that a change of diet would come with its own complications.

We are packing quite a punch in the pooping department nowadays.

Funny how it always comes down to a dirty diaper.

I just might write a book and call it, The Nappy Diaries.

Oh, the joys, the joys.