WEANING a child never becomes an easy task no matter how many times you do it. Each time it feels as mean and selfish, on your part, and as traumatic, for the child, as it did the previous time or times.
By Rumbi Munochiveyi
My husband was away when I weaned our second, and I was not just about to fail and wait for him to get back home to help.
On the first day of 100% no milk, I had offered the baby snacks such as yoghurt, pudding, and orange slices, in place of his night feedings.
The next night when he woke I went with my little cups of food again and we fed each other well. By the third night Baby decided he had better things to do than waking up at night to eat some funny foods mama came with to his bedside, and he slept through the night.
And just like that I weaned my second child, alone.
When the third one came, Mama felt like a pro at this breastfeeding game. The first feeding was a breeze and it was a long one. He wasn’t as big a feeder as his “predecessors”, but I breastfed him till he clocked 13 months as well. On the night he turned 13 months, after a week of reducing daily feeds, I gave him his last feeding thinking that would be it.
The next day my heart broke and I felt for my little human being, my last born then, and I decided to continue, and I nursed him the whole day.
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But on the next day I asked myself: What nonsense is this Rumbi? How will it ever end?
So I went to that food-at-night technique I had adopted with his older brother, and I weaned him. He was so mad he hit me and threw a mad tantrum on the second day of weaning, but I hugged him and told him: Dude, you should be grateful, you nursed a day more than your older brothers, a whole day more.
Now with the fourth one, the fourth and last, again, I battled with the thought of weaning her. I could not see myself succeeding.
We had spent so many beautiful afternoons feeding for minutes upon minutes, in no hurry to do anything else, just nursing, looking into each other’s eyes, playing with each other’s hair and Baby sometimes pulling onto my mouth whilst I tickled her little feet.
Life was more hectic and yet when I sat to feed her, I closed it all out and enjoyed the shared moments.
I knew this was bonding time with baby and I treasured it. I wanted it to last forever.
When the time came to wean her, I wanted to push it to 24 months, but I was afraid of pushing it beyond what I knew.
So when she turned 13 months, I got my cups of yoghurt and this and that’s ready, and on the first night hubby said: Why don’t we start in a few days’ time, during the weekend so I’m not disturbed at night as she yells for her milk?
And I thought, yaay, I have a perfect excuse to delay the weaning. That is how I got to feed baby Sarah for four-five days longer than her brothers.
On the day we had decided on, I had to do it, it had to be done, and since Dad was helping I could not go back on the plan.
So on the Friday of the Sunday she had turned 13 months, with the help of yoghurt and other funny snacks, Miss Sarah was weaned.
I wished I had continued, but I feared struggling a lot more if I weaned her older than the age I knew how to wean.
My mother had said I needed to wean them all at the same time, for bonding reasons or whatever it was her doctor told her three decades back.
I miss the time I spent nursing my children, and I’m glad I nursed the last three knowing how special a time it is, and savoured each moment daily.
I hope never to breastfeed again in my life, but I am very happy and grateful to have had this fulfilling experience with my children.
May the bonds we formed whilst nourishing helpless little bodies to good health and growth, become stronger and stronger and last a lifetime.
In total, I have done 42 months of breastfeeding. I could have a PhD in breastfeeding, you know.
