2nd August 2016
As anyone who meets our son soon realises, Kingsley is a breastfed-anywhere-anytime kiddo whose mumma – me – makes no excuses, apologies or discretion about the matter. The kid is hungry? He is breastfed. He is agitated or upset? Popped on the breast. Hurt himself? Straight on. Tantrum, confusion or meltdown? Out comes the boob. Without fail, and on demand, naptimes and sleepytime at night are preceded by ‘vizi’ (Kingsley’s unseemly call for ‘boob’ in his perfect slang Greek). We’ve been boobing for over two and a half years and as Erroll just said over dinner tonight, its been World Breastfeeding Week for the past thirty one months of all of our lives.
In August 1990 a bunch of government policymakers, WHO, UNICEF and other organizations signed the Innocenti Declaration with the aim to protect, promote and support breastfeeding. This has culminated in Breastfeeding Week for the public, a fact not lost on the Hartley family as I attempt to type this with Kingsley hanging off his favourite ‘vizi’, the left one; the one with milk still contained therein; the one he has named Omega. Like myself, millions of ladies breastfeed as long as their lives allow with the hopes of providing ideal nutrition to their babies, and the dreams of creating healthy, sane and clever little humans down the line.
Whether at an airport, park, café, or home, the Hartleys have chosen to breastfeed their son. Day one was when the little champ was born. He has yet to determine when he will stop. I’ll be ready, albeit with tears in my eyes and joy in my heart.
Happy boobing to you all.