Sabotage in a can

(Side note before I even begin: I can't write the word "sabotage" without mentally singing the Beastie Boys' "Sabotage" in my head. "What could it be? It's a mirage. You're scheming on a thing, it's sabotage..." Best. Song. Ever.)

But back to the task at hand. I recently had a baby. Those of you who know me won't be surprised to learn that I'm breastfeeding. I have a degree in Maternal and Child Health. I worked as a Graduate Research Assistant at the Carolina Global Breastfeeding Institute. My mom breastfed me when I was young, and she was a Public Health nurse for many years - promoting and supporting breastfeeding as part of her job. So for me, breastfeeding has always been the norm.

People may also be surprised, however, to learn that I'm not opposed to formula. Some women need it. Some women want it. And I'm not here to play the guilt game, although some people in the breastfeeding community think that guilt can be a powerful motivating tool. My own personal opinion? Moms have enough guilt to deal with already, and we should be focusing our efforts on making people feel good about themselves. If formula is right for you, great.

But there are those of us who really want to breastfeed. Which brings me to the title of my post. When I had my first prenatal appointment with this pregnancy, my OB's office gave me the option to sign up for marketing and promotional items from the major formula manufacturers (Enfamil, Similac). I politely declined. With my last pregnancy, 7 years ago, I didn't know I had the option to decline these items. Consequently, I received a "gift package" at my 32 week OB appointment that contained formula samples and coupons. I got a hospital discharge bag with more coupons and formula. (Why does this matter? See here.) And the free samples kept coming in the mail until I had accumulated nearly 20 cans without asking for them.

This time it's been different. I delivered at a different hospital, Durham Regional, with nary a mention of formula. My OB's office respected my wishes and I heard nothing about formula from them. I thought I had successfully hidden myself from the formula companies. Until last week. When I received this in the mail:

Free formula samples. How did they find me, you ask? I suspect Babies R Us, where I registered and gave my due date. But that's beside the point. Let's talk about why this is sabotage.

1. The product. The formula companies like to tout all of their different products. A newer offering, included in my gift box, is formula targeted specifically to newborns, to meet their unique nutritional needs. Of course, the Enfamil people neglected to mention another product that is also targeted to meet the unique nutritional needs of newborns: breastmilk. But where's the profit in that? (And if you think that this messaging doesn't matter, it does. I did some focus groups with women to look at the effects of formula advertising. Even the women commited to breastfeeding were left wondering whether their breastmilk had everything that a baby needs. "AHA? DHA? Does my breastmilk provide that? Changing nutrition to meet baby's needs over time? Can my breastmilk do that?" You know why the formula companies tout those things? To be more like the competition: breastmilk.)

2. The messaging. As a new mom, you're constantly questioning your decisions. Did I buy the right kind of diaper cream? Should I give my baby a pacifier? Am I doing this all wrong? Amidst all the confusion, it helps to know you're not alone. Clearly the marketing people at Enfamil know this...check out the ad copy on the left. 

The message? Whatever your choice, you're in good company. It's just that you're in better company if you formula feed. So don't feel bad if breastfeeding is just too hard. (After all, it's not like we formula companies help make it easy. Ha, ha! Go, us!) 

In short, don't feel guilty about using formula. In fact, if you don't use formula, you're the freaky one in the minority. All those other women must know something that you don't. Just sayin'.

   

3. Perverting what's normal. If you've never been around a baby, let me tell you what they do. They eat. They sleep. They poop. They have gas. They get fussy. They spit up. They cry.

All normal things. But to the formula people, these things represent opportunities.

Baby has gas? We can fix that! In 24 hours! (Next product? Formula to make sure your baby never poops! Except the diaper companies are fighting us on that one.)

There are similar formulas to ease spitting up, colic, etc. But what they don't tell you is that these special formulas reduce gas, spitting up, etc., when COMPARED TO REGULAR FORMULA. If your breastfed baby has gas (totally normal), you don't need to buy this product to fix it.


4. The timing. Finally, the issue that set off this post and required my poor husband to listen to a 5-minute long tirade...the timing of the whole thing.

This free gift of formula, complete with informative feeding guide, arrived a week after my due date. The "gift" was calculated to arrive when I was home from the hospital, sleep deprived, likely struggling with breastfeeding every 1-3 hours, and just plain exhausted. (Of course, the fine folks at Enfamil had no way of knowing that my baby arrived 4 weeks early. Still, all of the above re: sleep deprivation still applies.)

In other words, the formula was designed to arrive when my energy, reserves, and commitment to breastfeeding were at their lowest. When I was likely to need support. Oh, hey, free formula! There you are, with your helpful product and information. Like this statement about sleep: 

Now, what I HATE about this is not the information. It's totally correct. Breastfed babies DO need to eat more frequently, because breastmilk is more easily digested. What I hate about this is that Enfamil presents this as a problem to be solved. With their product. And they invoke the American Academy of Pediatrics to do so. We all know that more sleep = better, right? And if the baby is eating every 3-4 hours instead of every 2-3 hours, they're probably more satisfied, right? Your breastmilk just isn't doing the job. Even the AAP thinks so. The not-so-subtle message that I get from this is that the AAP thinks your babies will sleep better if you just use formula. It's the answer to your sleep deprivation, worries, and anxieties. Thanks, Enfamil!

Like I said, my objective here is not to criticize moms who use formula. I'm glad formula exists for people who want and need it. But as a breastfeeding mom, I resent the formula companies deliberating trying to sabotage my efforts at breastfeeding. Because, make no mistake about it, breastfeeding is HARD. You worry about getting the latch right. You worry about whether the baby is getting enough. People think breastfeeding is gross. It's hard to find breastfeeding allies, even your pediatrician. You will, at some point, feel like your sole purpose in life is to have a baby attached to your boob. If you're working outside the home, it will be even harder - finding time to pump, maintaining your supply, etc., etc., etc.

I, for one, have a ton of support. My family and friends don't criticize my decision to breastfeed, even if they didn't make the same choice. I have my own office at work and the kind of job where I can pump while I'm on a conference call. My husband is incredible. (After my daughter's 1 month appointment, the doctor complimented me on her weight gain and "rolls." Tad's response when I texted him to let him know? "Awesome! Good job mom! And here is to all those midnight feedings!" I love him.)

But even with all the support, I sometimes get overwhelmed. When Tad brings a yowling baby to me 30 minutes after she nursed for an hour and drained me dry, I want to hide. When the same baby spits up enough milk to constitute one whole feeding, it seems like wasted effort. When I go back to work and have days where I don't pump a lot of milk, I'll feel anxious.

But when I look around for support, it will be there. The reality, though, is that I'm in the minority. And so I get mad at Enfamil, because when most women look around, the only "support" for breastfeeding they'll find is the formula sample they received in the mail. And the formula companies know it. They propogate it. They play to it. They COUNT on it.

To quote the Beasties: "Listen all y'all.....it's sabotage."  

Oatrage

I think we might be fighting the wrong battle.

Yesterday, several people forwarded me a New York Times opinion article about McDonald’s oatmeal.

My recipe for my morning oatmeal involves 5 ingredients: oats, water, craisins, pumpkin seeds, and a sprinkle of brown sugar. McDonald’s recipe involves 21 ingredients.

The differences don’t end there. My 5-year old daughter can read all of the ingredients in my oatmeal, but there’s no way she’ll get all of the ingredients in Mickey D’s oatmeal.

Carrageenan? Sodium stearoyl lactylate? She’s smart, but not that smart.

Due to the NYT article, oatrage (I typed it that way, and I’m totally leaving it, because I think it’s the most brilliant typo ever) is growing about Mickey D’s newest breakfast offering. The “oatrage” is due not only to the ingredient list, but also to the nutritional value of the “FMO” (that’s “Fruit and Maple Oatmeal” in McDonald’s speak).

Side note to McDonald’s marketing team: You didn’t think that FMO sounded a lot like “GMO” (genetically modified organism)? And if you did, you still thought it was a good idea?

So what’s the flap? McDonald’s is pitching their oatmeal as a healthier breakfast offering. But their oatmeal contains 290 calories, 4.5 grams of fat, and 32 grams of sugar. That’s more sugar than a Snicker’s bar. So, in truth, it’s not really the healthiest breakfast choice you could make.

After reading the NYT article yesterday, I got up on my soapbox. The gist of my beef can be summed up as “What did you expect, people? It’s freakin’ MCDONALD’S. Of COURSE it’s not healthy.” You don’t go to Disney World expecting a quiet get-away where you’re not surrounded by anyone. And you don’t go to McDonald’s expecting healthy food. Don’t eat the oatmeal. It’s just that simple. They're NOT going to make anything healthy.

But in sitting down to write this blog post, I’ve been forced to re-evaluate my stance and…gasp…give Mickey D’s some credit here for pitching their oatmeal as a healthier offering. Why the turnaround? Because I went online to look at McDonald’s nutritional information.

Let’s talk about the Happy Meal. If you snag a quick Happy Meal of 4-ct chicken mcnuggets, fries, and 1% chocolate milk, you’ll be giving your child the gift of 580 calories, 26 grams of fat, and 25 grams of sugar. If you choose the cheeseburger instead of the chicken mcnuggets, you’ve upped it to 700 calories, 27 grams of fat, and 31 grams of sugar.

Let’s view this in light of the fact that a fairly sedentary 4-8 year old child needs approximately 1200 calories a day. One Happy Meal could give you at least half that. Add a dessert (apple pie or a sundae will set you back about 300 calories), and little Susie or Johnny is nearly done for the day.

So, when viewing Mickey D’s FMO in light of the rest of their menu, I can’t really be “oatraged” anymore. Maybe it’s not perfect, but it’s a step in the right direction. Yes, oatmeal with 32 grams of sugar isn’t great. But if you order FMO instead of the McDonald’s offering known as “Big Breakfast with Hotcakes,” you’ll be saving yourself over 850 calories. I’ll give McDonald’s some credit for that, and think maybe we should get off of their backs for a bit.

After all, I’m not sure they have the strength to carry us around after eating all those Big Macs.

Really, Stephen Mayer?

On this Valentine's Day, I'd like to dedicate this post to Stephen Mayer, whose name probably would have fallen into the ether of my memory were it not for one 30-second interaction.

It was Valentine's Day. 3rd grade.

Back in MY day (I've reached the age where I feel like I can use that phrase), Valentine's Day wasn't the all-inclusive love fest that it is today. Sure, your parents may have TOLD you that "Yes, you have to write a Valentine for Suzy even though she's a mouth breather who eats paste." But that didn't mean you had to GIVE it to her. And the teachers, quite frankly, didn't care. That was the nature of the beast. Some kids got lots of Valentines. Some kids didn't. Cruel? Maybe. But you know what? It's also real life. Because in real life, not everybody likes you enough to write your name on a crappy, pre-printed profession of love.

I digress.

I was fortunate enough at that point to be one of the kids who got lots of Valentines. This would change later on, but in third grade, I was basking in my (relative) popularity.

Another Valentine tradition in our classroom was to elect a Valentine king and queen. This was done by a simple vote before lunch. The teacher handed out a piece of paper, and you had to write down the name of the one boy and one girl you wanted as Valentine king and queen. What's fascinating to me is that, even in 3rd grade, kids had enough of a sense of social hierarchy that they didn't vote for themselves. You knew who was in the running and who wasn't. If we had all been more socialist in nature, we would have said "screw it all" and everyone would have written their own name. But we didn't. Because there was allure in the hierarchy. The Valentine king and queen got to wear CROWNS. All afternoon. And they got special chairs. And I seem to remember a scepter, but I could totally be making that up. (Such is the mystique of the Valentine king and queen.)

At any rate, it was time for the vote. I had a good sense from the pre-voting "intel" that I was strongly in the running for Valentine queen. I was even starting to bask in the glory, while simultaneously trying to play it cool. I was saying out loud, "Oh, you totally don't have to vote for ME!" while inside my head, I was thinking, "Okay, Stephanie is voting for me. That makes 8 girls on my side."

As the teacher passed out pieces of paper and pencils, I was feeling pretty good. I wrote my vote. Matt M. for king, because I had a total crush on him. Rachael F. for queen, because she was my best friend and I just couldn't bring myself to write my own name, even though I really wanted to.

Then Stephen Mayer, who was sitting at the desk to my right, turned to me and whispered.

"Pssss...hey. I have to ask you a question."

I didn't want to get in trouble for talking, but was compelled to answer when Stephen said, "I need to know how to spell my vote for queen."

Clearly I needed to answer. This poor guy had no idea how to spell my name.

I turned to him and smiled sweetly. I was about to spell my name when he said, "How do you spell 'Rachael'?"

What I wanted to say was, "Really, Stephen Mayer? How do you spell RACHAEL? Because it seems to me that if you wanted her to be Valentine queen so badly, you would at least know how to SPELL HER NAME."

What I did was to spell her name for him.

What makes me think of this is that, as I sit here today, I honestly cannot tell you whether I was elected Valentine queen. I think I was. Because I kind of remember it. I'm also willing to admit, however, the possibility that I imagined and fantasized about it so much that those fantasies have replaced the actual circumstances of the event. So maybe I was Valentine queen, and maybe I wasn't.

The only thing I know for certain is that, if I was elected, it was no thanks to Stephen Mayer.

Our feet are saying goodbye

I feel the need to explain the title of this blog, although most who know me will get it.

Unfortunately, I now realize that I've done this backwards, because I'm giving away the punch line before I've told the story. That said, we'll carry on.

When I was growing up, my dad made me a tape of "The Sound of Music" soundtrack. (Remember those days of having to flip the tape over halfway? And knowing that there was always one side that was better than the other?)

I listened to the tape a lot. My favorite songs were "I am Sixteen, Going on Seventeen" and "Edelweiss." The former because I liked to pretend I was Liesl, dancing around the gazebo. (Not because I wanted to have a clandestine romance with a boy who would turn out to be a Nazi.) The latter because I liked to imagine myself as one of the Von Trapp family singers. (Instead, I was born into a family where a significant portion of the people on my mom's side are tone deaf.)

Another song I liked was "So Long, Farewell." The Von Trapp kids sing it when they're allowed to make an appearance at a dinner party to say goodnight to everyone. One by one, they sing a verse and...this is very important...walk slowly away. With their feet.

Which explains why I thought the lyrics to the song were:
"So long, farewell, our feet are saying goodbye" and NOT "So long, farewell, auf widersehen, goodbye."

Go ahead.
Sing it.
See?

I can only vaguely convey the stunning nature of the "lightbulb" moment I had when I realized they were saying "Auf Widersehen." Yes, I know they were in Austria. Where they speak German. But, in my defense, they also spoke and sang in ENGLISH throughout the whole movie.

And yes, you might have thought I would realize this before I was in my 20s. But I didn't.

So, with the title of this blog, I'm saying better late than never. I'm saying embrace your mistakes, and even laugh about them. And I'm saying sing loudly, even when you have the lyrics stunningly wrong.