Keeping A-Breast of the Situation II

The winds of fate are blowing the way of breastfeeding. After my post heaping praises on the militant mommy protestors who bared their breasts to protest aggressive milk formula advertisements, a maelstrom of misfortune has fallen upon the milk formula industry in the country.

Yesterday, I passed by my favorite newsstand only to read that the Philippine government has ordered one of the bigger milk subsitute giants in the market, American-based Wyeth, to recall millions of cans of contaminated formula. 4.3 million cans to be exact - encompassing a product line that caters to babies ranging from newborn infants to toddlers.

Would this include cans already partially consumed by the children of an unsuspecting public?

Still, Wyeth continues to insist on the integrity of their products. They actually covered up the incidence of contamination until the Bureau of Food and Drugs conducted a routine inspection and cooked their goose. According to news reports, no claims have yet been filed against the multinational. How? We are talking about the residents of a third-world country here. Even if they file a class-action suit, how would they stand up against a phamaceutical firm backed by THE Western superpower?

How?

I shudder to think about those poor babies who might have inadvertently consumed the tainted formula. My heart (and mammaries) bleed for them.

As it is, according to the Department of Health, breastfeeding in the Philippines has dropped at an alarming rate, primarily caused by eerily convincing advertisements by multinational companies, claiming that so-and-so-brand will build stronger, smarter, brighter-eyed babies; subliminally suggesting that their milk substitutes will give your progeny a better chance at life compared to the "poor unfortunate" breastfed mulititudes.

Addidcted to the media, and blind as bats, even fully lactating mothers succumb to the lure of these advertisements, which push for the purchase of exhorbitantly expensive milk formulas, and going to the extent of implying that a picky toddler can skip a well-balanced nutritious meal as long as he can have a glass of so-and-so milk brand. Load of bull. But for the gullible public, it may as well be the only way to go.


And for the rest of us whose milk ducts have gone the way of the Gobi dessert, we are constrained to make this "informed" choice. It's practical and less messy than having to raise goats for milk, like my great-grandmother did after her milk dried up. Her lucky, lucky children.

There is hope that this huge milky mess to lately hit the baby formula industry will pave the way towards a positive change in attitude towards breastfeeding. But will it stand a chance against the profit-oriented super producers?

Alas, the work of breastfeeding advocates, like a mother's work, is never done.

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?

Moringa oleifera

Two things finally gave up on me as the new year took its first tentative steps into becoming. The passing of the first made me feel as if I’d lost a good friend. The second one continues to linger, but its faltering left me in a panic so hysterical and a sadness so deep that I sought a support group (hilarious really, Missus I-can-do-this-on-my-own-thank-you-very-much, finally asked for help).

The first one to reach the end of its path was my good old trusty electric breast pump. A gift from my aunt, it was Woog’s best bet at partaking from his mommy’s fresh milky goodness when she resumed work four years ago, and it was Eli’s as well…up until recently, when, despite Atch’s conscientious efforts at repair, maintenance and replacement of parts, it finally gave up its feeble ghost.

Almost immediately and all too soon, my milk ducts followed (oh woe! oh discordia!) I was in a state of denial, convinced that the success of motherhood depended on a neverending supply from the mommy pumps. And Eli barely six months old!

Who else can feel as useful and as needed as a breastfeeding mother? The very idea of being the beloved baby’s primary source of sustenance. The endless nights of jumping up at said beloved baby’s cries and the offering of one’s breasts to be suckled dry. The stinging cracked nipples. The muscle-constricting drum-tightness of mammaries screaming to be emptied. All that bleary-eyed sacrifice eventually becoming a source of righteous pride: here stands before you a nursing mother.

Even if my milk had slowed from its previous squirty gush, Eli still woke me every two hours in the night, like clockwork. He still fed for the usual half-hour before falling asleep. But the suspicion that I had become nothing more than this huge human pacifier wouldn’t go away.

I went online at my favorite parenting forum, seeking a solution, even going as far as inquiring if it were my modest bustline responsible for the dwindling milk supply.

And among those wonderful fellow mommies’ suggestions of increasing fluid intake, frequent nursings and imbibing cerveza negra (black beer), I found this: Moringa oleifera. The malunggay leaf, that bitter vegetable and bane of my childhood. More importantly, it came in capsule form (very convenient should I start gagging on a surfeit of malunggay-based broths). I went out and got some. I also bought a manual glass breast pump which promptly fell and broke (nerves? Nah, just the looming prospect my impending milk extinction).

Eli isn’t complaining, even if he has to work quite a bit to get his quota of milky goodness. He’s a very complacent baby, particularly now that he’s started working his gums around his first solids: what’s a trickle of milk when there’s that fantastically yummy banana & honey-flavored oatmeal to look forward to? He seems to say.

Ouch.

But I continue to take my malunggay pills religiously, hoping to delay the inevitable. And maybe, just maybe, prolong my usefulness – if not for my baby’s sake, then for mine.

Her Lumps…Her Lumps…Her "Lovely" Lady Lumps…

Define Mommy-envy. It’s when you think other mommies are doing a much better job at mothering than you are.

Which really sucks. Because you believe you’re busting your ass going all-out at trying to be the best mother in the world, setbacks notwithstanding. And since when has this become a competition anyway? Or so, you try to tell yourself.

I was godmother to Irene’s Eyla over the weekend. And I spent half the time ogling the teensy five-month-old princess who was wetly gumming a soft hand-toy and ogling everyone back with her wide-mouth grin.

After the ceremony, a mommy-group of fellow godparents eventually formed with Drixie, Eunice and myself, and we talked shop about milk formula; which ones were the cheapest, which ones our kids could stomach. And diapers. Oh diapers, that disposable budget drain!

Eventually the talk came around to breastfeeding, something I was entirely confident about. Or so I thought. Imagine my shock when Eunice shared about expressing an average of 24 ounces a day when she was breastfeeding her Mishka. Irene waltz over to our table just then and bragged of her 20 ounces a day, over and above the volume she squirts out to her exclusively-breastfed daughter.

I was still attempting to process this information, when Drixie (this sage mother of four) turned her long-suffering gaze to me, and sighed, “you’re lucky you don’t have this problem.”

And they all had this cringing look of remembrance of the fever-ache of ready-to-burst milk ducts, that I had to swallow my modest claim to the 8 - 12 ounces that I painstakingly pump out at work.

Saddest of all was the realization that these were friends who were not trying to put me and my efforts down at all. They were practically congratulating me on my pain-free breastfeeding, while they tottered around with their crippling D-cups, leaking milk. I looked down at my modest-B’s, and sighed. And I thought I had the nursing veteran-ship down to a tee.

Define Mammary-envy.

12/04/06

Oh My Ghost!

Do you believe in ghosts? I've been asking myself that question for the past two months. It just seemed like such mundane coincidental occurrences that I didn't give it much thought. But it appeared to be happening with the most unnerving frequency at the exact same time of the day.

What am I talking about?

Eli. That's what.

No, no, no... my infant son hasn't turned into a ghost (although it looks like this is where this narrative is heading. Goodness gracious me). However, I think Eli's been seeing a ghost. Or ghosts. Or spirits. Or whatever it is he laughs and chortles at, looking at the exact same spot at 5:30 in the morning. For the last two months.

I kid you not.

The reason I never gave it any thought at the time was, at four weeks old, developmentally speaking, Eli couldn't see clearly yet. The parenting website I've been reading proclaimed most confidently that babies that age can see vague shapes, bright lights, shadows. And perhaps mommy's face if she's holding it two inches from baby's own.

To get to the point. At exactly 5:30 every morning, give or take a few seconds, Eli would pause from his frenzied early morning nurse, take his mouth off my nipple, look at a beam on the opposite wall, and smile. Huge, wide-mouthed, gum-glaring grins. Most times, he'd give a hiccupping giggle. This would go on for about a minute or so. Then, like nothing happened, my voracious son would go back to mashing my breast with his fist and vacuuming milk into his mouth.

At first, puzzled, I would glance at where he was looking. I just saw a beam, painted the same institutional pine green as the rest of the apartment, nestled in between Atch's cabinet and Eli's own. It was a blank beam, no painting, no wall hanging, nothing.

The first month, I put the blame on Eli's unfocused vision. He's smiling at me, of course, I'd think smugly, as well he should, after these long sleepless nights of jumping up at every one of HRH's hungry cries. And I'd crest the wave of maternal pride at having a baby who understood the meaning of “appreciating Mommy's sacrifices” really early.

This second month, I began to get skeptical. I knew for a fact that Eli could see clearly by this time. He'd often zero in on me from across the room five feet away and gum me a smile while waving his limbs energetically. So why was he still communing with that beam? At 5:30 am each day?

Curious, I began to gather random facts in my head. This apartment complex was over thirty years old. There were six doors, and Door Number Five, the door we were in, was in the oldest portion of the compound, having once been connected to the main house. The previous occupant was an aged widowed lady with a serious mahjong habit. She lived alone and sometimes had her equally ancient lady friends over for mahjong sessions which lasted well into the wee hours. Then she died.

Then she died.

Well, of course, she didn't die in the apartment. She died in the hospital, from complications of old age. She was nearly ninety, I remember. She liked kids, too. She used to hold lengthy conversations with a toddling Woog. And then she died. And now we have her apartment. Her very room.

By nature and as per cultural upbringing, I am a superstitious person. But I've never seen a ghost, or a spirit, not even a mythological aswang. This might very well be my one chance to do so. So, apprehensive, I braced myself for the proverbial windless chill and flurry of goosebumps that accompanies the presence of the paranormal. At 5:30 in the morning. In the first light of dawn.

On the dot of the clock, Eli began his ritual. Chlurp, chlurp, chlurp. Long pause. Lengthy look at the beam. Huge grin. Still grinning. “Eh-heh-heh”. Long pause. Back to breast. Chlurp, chlurp, chlurp.

All this while, I threw my senses wide open. Eyes, ears, nose, skin. Pysche. Never in the history of an early morning was a nursing mother more wide awake and in full possession of her faculties. And then...

Nothing. Not a single thing. No shimmer in the air. No chill. Not even a goosebump. I looked down at my son and his eyes were at half-mast, clearly enjoying his meal. Do you know something I don't, little guy?

In the car on the way to work, I told Atch. I even brought it up over lunch at work. Atch scoffed at me. The officemates laughed. But I have this theory. That little babies have a radar of consciousness the magnitude of which we will never be able to fathom. That until this cognizance is polluted by the noisy world around them, they can see and hear and feel things we cannot. That this special time of utter clarity draws to an end, all too soon.

Have I come remotely close, Eli? Is Mommy on the dot on this one?

What do you think?

September 2006

Survival of the Kick-est

When the little guy suckles, his eyes are screwed shut in fierce determination. He issues guttural little croaks and the occasional squeek. His fists are clenched, insistently pushing against my breast, or waving around as if to ward away prospective competitors.

You'd think he was born along with several other litter-mates. What do you think I am, little guy? A sow?

Funniest of all, his knees and feet push against my tummy, just like when he was in utero. And if my stomach wasn't in his immediate radius, well, the poor naked air would take the brunt of his ferocious drop-kicks. Aren't I lucky my nose and jaw aren't at torso level?

I remember when Woog was nursing. Such a serene fellow he was. He'd feast leisurely at my breast while staring up into my eyes, drinking deeply from the sight of me that I'd fall in love with him all over again at every feeding. Most times, he'd smile up at me from around my nipple - a most bewitching sight to behold that I wouldn't mind him dribbling rivulets of milk down his chin and my chest.

And Eli. My fierce little fighter. The way he suckles, you'd think he was trying to vacuum the whole breast into his tiny mouth. And I always get a laugh trying to catch hold of his little sausage arms and legs.

Are you punching and kicking your way into the rat race, my friend? I hope not. I pray your world stays as peaceful, as beautiful, and as uncomplicated for as long as I can possibly make it.

July 2006