Keeping A-Breast of the Situation

The other day, on my way to the bank, I espied a very riveting picture in a publication at my favorite newsstand, and no, it wasn't the cover of the latest FHM issue or the un-bare-able exploits of young (and not so young) starlets in full rgb color palette in the local tabloids (although they did merit some second glances).

The headline read: "Mothers Bare Breasts..." , front and center of the Philippine Daily Inquirer, full color picture included. A group of mothers paraded in front of the Supreme Court of the Philippines and unbuttoned their shirts to show support for, what else ... breastfeeding, and the Department of Health's stricter policies on milk formula advertisements. Apparently, milk formula companies were challenging these policies right at the highest court in the land.

Mothers of varied ages bared breasts of different shapes and sizes, affected by various gradients of gravitational pull, all brightly painted in protest slogans against the proliferation of formula as breastmilk substitute. Right then and there, a righteous compulsion to be where the action was and give in to an evil exhibitionist streak to bare the deflated flaps of skin on my chest, took centerstage. And of course, to stand with my sisters-in-arms, those hardy bare-chested women who braved the elements, goggle-eyed onlookers and riot police to proclaim to the world that breastmilk is still best for babies.

Some of them, like a 72-year-old mother of seven, raised purely breastfed children. Just like a friend of mine who called the same day (coincidence?), proudly telling me, in the course of our chitchat, that her 1-year-old daughter is still (still!) purely breastfed. No formula, thank you very much. How I envy them. They keep the costs down, while keeping the babies healthy. If I only had enough milk to last my babies into their second year, Woog would never have had those frightening bouts with asthma, and Eli would be a bigger piglet yet. It got me thinking, that from our accumulated savings on milk formula, we could've built our own home by now, instead of living in a cramped 30-year-old apartment with one toilet. We could only be so lucky.

Eli can't seem to tell the difference, though. My milk petered out in his eighth month, yet every night I remain his trusty soothing human pacifier. The only one who can quiet his cries or put him back to sleep. My lovely boy. Would that I were as easy to pacify. As for Woog, my milk lasted him exactly 11 months. He didn't even miss it at all. Charged full speed ahead to gurgle on the most expensive formula in the market. High-maintenance little bugger. Lovely boy all the same.

Really wished I were there that day, with those brave godivas, proudly presenting mammaries that nourished the world. Even if my own mommy-pumps are bone dry. What would we be without advocates like them?