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?

Complete Turn-around

I received some very lovely and totally encouraging comments on my previous post, making me feel so overwhelmingly NOT alone. How empowering that feeling is, when you are hit over the head by a premature forerunner of the empty nest syndrome, to have fellow parents reassure you that your kids will always need you, no matter how old they (or you) get. To have a sense that you are not alone in your uphill struggle to raise your kids the best way you can - is awe inspiring.

As proof of that reassurance, over the weekend, my boys suddenly remembered what their mother was for. Sunday, Woog clung to me as I put him down for the night, "I want to hug you forever and ever!" He exclaimed dramatically, putting his arms around me and doing just that.

"Even until I get old and weak, and you have to carry me around everywhere?" I asked him, preening.

"Yes!"

"Even if I get sick and die, and you have to keep hugging my rotting body?" I joked, bringing on the morbid.

"Yes!"

"Ok, then, you can hug me the whole night, even if I haven't had my bath or brushed my teeth yet."

Long pause.

"Take a bath, Mommy. Brush your teeth."

"I thought you were going to hug me forever."

A cringing whimper, "But you're dirty!"

The germophobe: "Ewwie, Mom!"

Funny thing about having a son who loves you more than the thought of death, it's having a son who's deathly afraid of the thought of germs. Just like his mom.

Eli came down with a bad cold the same weekend, signalling the advent another sleepless gum-breaking milktooth episode. "Clinging" is such a tame word to use for the display of affection he exhibited. "Clinging" cannot rightfully be put down as the reason for one's utter inability to use the toilet because both arms cannot pull down one's pants to do the deed - they are full of sniffling, snivelling baby. Or to eat a decent meal because one's hands are busy holding and feeding said baby, who has refused, in shrill yodelling multi-decibels, to be deposited into the convenient comfortable highchair.

Mothers of teething babies everywhere should learn the trick of using their feet to pull down their pants to pee, or grasp spoon and fork with their toes to eat. We can do everything else apparently, why not this, too?

Snotface taking his meds like a good boy

I am gratefully overwhelmed by the sheer neediness of my boys. Even Atch has not spared me this kudos. Having not had a real vacation from work in over two years, Personnel ordered him to take one, else forever forfeit all of his accumulated vacation leave credits. Atch reluctantly took twelve days off and tossed an offhand invitation for me to do the same, "Take a leave, Aif," he muttered in passing.

Knowing my husband, this would have to be just about the most romantic gesture he'd managed in the last five years. This was a once in a blue moon opportunity, a needle in a haystack, a jackpot in the lottery. Right splat in the middle of my own work deadlines and a crucial project my boss was riding us hard on.

Cajoling expression not likely to be seen again in the next decade

"Let's take a vacation in Cebu," he threw in for good measure, knowing I had never been there. The PR man knew his hardsell. In abject gratitude, I took a one-day leave. He pouted a bit, but recovered quickly enough (so much for the romance), probably thanking his lucky stars that my work ethic saved him a hefty amount in plane tickets and hotel accomodations. As of this writing, he is spending his vacation doing all manner of repairs around the apartment. Quite the useful husband. I think I'll keep him.

All in all, despite the sleepless nights toothy Eli is giving me (arms around my neck, death grip on my exposed ear, open-mouthed snores into my face), the suspicious sniffing Woog subjects me to before he hugs me tight, and the husband who thinks a vacation from work equals a vacation from taking baths ("Hug, Aif."), I think I just might survive this deluge of attention.

I am needed, after all, and that alone makes all the difference in the world.

Mommy's Growing Pains

Today Woog pulled his trolley bag out of my grasp and trundled off with it towards the gates of his preschool. He paused a bit to adjust the lever that lengthens the handlebars, then sped off with nary a glance back at his bereft mother. I watched him through suddenly misty vision as he greeted teachers and schoolmates like a seasoned politician, forgetting our ritual goodbye kiss. Wuv-wuv, Mom, he waved as an afterthought, treating me to the terribly achey sight of his disappearing back.

Off to conquer the world

Soon, he isn't going to want me around at all. This thought sent me misting up all over again, and pasting a gloriously fake quivering smile on my chops, I hastily left. Wouldn't do for his friends to see his mother blubbering like a demented loon now, would it? Wouldn't want to embarass my son on the first day of school.

Such an emotionally distressing day. And it isn't even 9 o'clock.

Earlier, I woke with a start to find Eli silently climbing over me, one leg over my prone self, eyes fixed determinedly on his goal - the floor an alarming two-foot drop down. Blood pressure shooting up, I squawked and snagged the back of his shirt before he dove face-first to his noggin-shattering doom.

He yowled in shrill protest, his first sound of the day, this 11-month old who used to wake me with insistent burrowing noises on my breast, or laughing slaps of his beefy little hands on my tummy.


Why are my babies trying to leave me?

It amazes me how everyday they move forward with time at such amazing speeds. It seems I merely have to blink, and suddenly they've flitted beyond the grasp of my understanding, leaving me panting to catch up to the different persons they've become, practically overnight.

Oh, I know that change is bound to happen. Babies grow up and out of their mother's arms. I understand the concept completely. It's the cold hard reality that's so hard to accept. Reminds me of that cheesy 80's song I often hear murdered in videoke bars everywhere, The Winds of Change; and when that wind comes in, my kids speed along its updrafts, while I get buffeted about in their slipstream, bewildered and totally lost.

Perhaps this is the reality for decrepit parents everywhere. For us, the passage of time is marked by pains that are suddenly sharper, aches that go deeper into the bone, and children who are suddenly beyond our reach, grown out of babyhood before we've even began to fully savor them.

I would like to rewind the days and have multiple repeats of all the heart-fattening moments I've spent with my boys, but I do realize they have to make their own way, with or without me. Quite likely, without me. Because as much as I am able to, I will be dragging my heels in protest at this relentless forward motion. Til they shake off this ancient clinging barnacle that is their mother.

Sigh.

I didn't mean that last part, of course. Quite likely a by-product of an emotionally rending day. Much as it pains me to do so, I will be the first one to encourage them to spread their wings, and the last one to pick them up when they fall. With pain, after all, there is growth.

Fly away, my babies. Mommy bird will be here at the nest waiting for any visit you will be generous enough to bestow upon her. I'll stock the pantry with worms. Promise.