Mia – Breastfeeding Activist. A Guest Post from Indonesia

This is a post about the developing world, where things are different. Things we take for granted here, clean water, access to health care and education are not a given, for many they are a wish or a dream.

This is a post about breastfeeding. It is not about my choices or experiences or even the choices or experiences of majority of readers of the this blog. It is not about breastfeeding in the first world. It is about breastfeeding in the developing world.

I am delighted to be hosting a guest post on my blog, the author is Mia Sutanto the Chairwoman of AIMI. AIMI is an Indonesian organisation which promotes breastfeeding. Mia shares her experience and why she campaigns to promote breastfeeding.

You can find Mia on twitter
@miasutanto
She describes herself: “Lactivist mom of breastfed daughters, breastfeeding counselor, chairwoman of AIMI, ashoka social entrepreneur, wifey, foodie, avid traveller, graceful dancer”

This post is Mia’s.

I had my first daughter in 2004, and had such a lot of challenges with
breast-feeding in the beginning. Sadly I had little to no support from
the doctors. My baby was born with jaundice and so I had to express my
milk. I tried to express but ended up with breast engorgement and
sore nipples. It also used to be the norm for the hospital to take
your child away after they were first born to give you a rest. They
did this with my daughter and gave her formula while she was away from
me. So, I continued to give her formula and mixed it with
breastfeeding while she was little.

I really struggled to breastfeed and gave up after 10 months.
Afterwards I wondered to myself how come I fell short from my goal.
I’d read in magazines and books that breastfeeding is a very good
thing for your baby. There is this perception in Indonesia that if you
want to breastfeed it’s a natural thing to do and that it will be
easy. Instead, I was crying all the time as I found it such a
struggle.

I realised that just wanting to breastfeeding wasn’t enough – you have
to learn. So, after 10 months I gave up. In late 2006 I found article
about breastfeeding counsellors. I enrolled for some training and
after doing it started to campaign to my friends and family.

I also went online and found the mailing list which was the beginning
of our organisation Aimi – at the time it only had 20 – 30 mothers who
emailed each other for breastfeeding advice. I offered to help as a
breastfeeding counsellor.

With AIMI we try to meet the need by providing breast-feeding
counselling & education support for women but also try and fix the
system – we campaign for responsible marketing & government regulation
to support women who, for example, want to breast-feed at work.

All women deserve to have access to support and education about
breastfeeding, and here in Indonesia it really is a matter of life and
death – our government has calculated that the lives of 30,000 babies
could be saved every year if they were exclusively breastfed for the
first six months.

There’s a huge challenge ahead for us – to be able to reach people all
across Indonesia so that those babies’ lives can be saved.

Many thanks Mia.

Save the Children have launched a campaign “The Power of the First Hour”.  Their report which can be read here; Super Food for Babies
The report’s research bears witness to the complex factors which impact on women in the developing world’s choices when it comes to breastfeeding, factors such as community and cultural pressures, a lack of access to health workers, and the inappropriate promotion of breast-milk substitutes by the global companies that produce formula.

Despite much progress and organisations like AIMI and women like Mia, in many places breastfeeding rates are stalling, in some places they are in decline.

In the UK the debate about breastfeeding and formula feeding can be intense and emotional, lets put that to one side. The fact is that breastfeeding is a mother’s natural antidote to hunger and disease, in the world’s poorest places the choice to breastfeed or not can be the difference between life and death for a baby. If all babies were breastfed within the first hour of life, a staggering 830,000 children’s lives would be saved every year. That is how important the ‘Power Hour’ is in the developing world; the first hour of life.  But with the right support and information women can make the best choices for their baby.

My wish is that Mia’s post inspires others to get involved. Information to write your own post is available at the Save the Children Bloggers Tool kit here.

Save the Children are petitioning the CEOs of Nestlé & Danone, the largest produces or formula;

“As leading baby milk formula manufacturers, you have a special responsibility. The way you market your products can influence women’s decisions to breastfeed. Despite 30 years of the WHO’s* international marketing code, there are still too many reports of it being violated. It’s time for it to stop.”
Save the Children

(*World Health Authority)

Sign the petition here.
Share the campaign on Social Media #firsthour
Follow @SavethechildrenUK on twitter, or Save the Children UK on Facebook.

Mia’s words are inspiring, women like her need our support to save babies, not just in Indonesia but across the developing world. There is a better way as the Mia and the women of AIMI show us. Support women and babies in the developing world. Support Save the Children in this campaign.

Food

Like many parents I regularly experience the frustration of my son’s refusal to eat particular foods. Frustrating because his list of dislikes is mostly things he previously would eat. Toast was briefly rejected. Toast! Ketchup is no longer a friend of his chips.

“I don’t eat olives anymore”
“I don’t like grapes or hummus”
“I’ve gone off bananas”
“Rice. No. I’ve changed my mind”.

Baked beans loved, then firmly lost and have recently made a re-entry into our lives and are (currently) enjoyed with gusto. So there is always hope. Although he has never liked strawberries!

I was a picky eater as a child and barely ate a vegetable until my early 20′s. I feel slightly hypocritical extolling the virtues of broccoli to my four-year old. My child hood memories of food were of battles at school over uneaten dinners. Being circled by menacing dinner ladies and forced to swallow inedible stew. At home we ate ‘meat and two veg’ meals. I particularly remember Sunday tea; homemade scotch eggs and sandwiches followed fairy cakes and pastries made by my mother. I have very sweet tooth. A stand out memory from my child hood was our biscuit tin. We had a pale blue biscuit tin, it was tall and had a print of white romanesque figures on each of it’s six sides and golden knob on the top. I have clear memory as a very small child of seeing the biscuit tin on the kitchen worktop and of climbing onto a stool to get to it. Stretching out to reach the tin and losing my balance. Falling backwards onto the doorstep of the open kitchen door. I ‘cracked’ my head and had to have stitches. Despite this I loved the biscuit tin and the childish thrill of what goodies it might contain. Sponge fingers, fig biscuits or Garibaldi’s. The biscuits of my childhood. Now I am a parent, I have been for sometime in pursuit of the perfect biscuit tin. I love biscuits and cakes, I enjoy the ritual of taking the time to stop and enjoy. Time out from the day. It’s a pleasure I enjoy sharing with my son. Juice for him, tea for me and biscuits for us both.

I had been eyeing various rather cool Emma Bridgewater biscuit tins. Then I found myself in a hardware shop with my son. One of those old fashion hardware stores that has been in the same spot for decades and sells everything. I found a nice collection of storage and tins. Noo chose this one.

I wouldn’t say it was my first choice in the style stakes but he likes it and it is certainly a better place for the various packets of biscuits that until then lived in the cupboard with unromantic practical plastic clips around the top to keep their freshness. Biscuits got a new home and snack time got a new focus. Biscuits have to be selected from the tin. Immediately, Noo decided the tin was “magic”. Tellingly “It can do what ever it wants”. I suspects this means ‘it’ can eat and endless amount of biscuits.

What’s in the biscuit tin today? Currently plain digestive (Noo’s choice) and milk chocolate digestive (mine).

What’s your biscuit of choice? Where do you keep them? Is there such as thing as too many biscuits?

This post is for The Gallery at Tara’s blog. Pop over to Sticky Fingers and enjoy the other entries.

The Every Day

Our journey to nursery. A year ago I lost my job. Our mornings changed dramatically. From the pressure of being out of the house at a certain time. Into the car. Dashing back to grab forgotten items. Stress levels rising. On the accelerator to nursery. Drop. Wave. Gone. Next focus the traffic. The clock ticking. That routine was replaced by a walk, the hours are different and if we are little bit late, no problem, time is ours. My son scoots and I walk. We chat. In the past few weeks, at his request, (I am assuming it’s a boy thing) we have used to walk to learn the symbols and names of different makes of cars. His time at nursery is ending, soon to be replaced by summer holidays and then school in September. His understanding of letters and numbers has developed considerably. This morning we played I-spy, rather than “I-spy something blue”, we played with actually letters; T for tree. F for Ford. A for Audi. It made me smile a big proud Mother smile. I treasure the every day routine of our journey to nursery. I don’t remember much of my own time at nursery and I imagine school will create an explosion of new experiences, friendships and memories. I am very grateful for the every days I’ve had over the last year. The time for ordinary stuff. I appreciate it can’t last, but I am hoping the memories will.

This post is for The Gallery at Tara’s blog. Pop over to Sticky Fingers and enjoy the other entries.

 

Gather the wonderful

A few week’s ago my mother died, she was in ‘end of life care’.

Part of the process of someone passing away is sharing the news. For most people close it was an inevitable phone call, expected within the course of events that had unfolded in the last fews weeks. Something we were waiting for, like sitting on a cold, dark platform, staring up the track, waiting for a train, just waiting. The dull void of waiting for a train travelling to it’s own timetable. Staring up the tracks, wondering and waiting doesn’t make it come any slower or any quicker but still you look into the darkness for that first glimpse that marks it’s inevitable arrival, a glimmer in the distance. Turn away for a moment an it’s there. Pulled up sharply at the station. You have no choice but to get aboard. Another part of the journey and while the train is a welcome relief from the cold and dark of the wait. The train isn’t the comfort you’d hoped, just another stage towards an unknown destination. Part of life’s path the uncharted nature of the future.

And so early one morning, I found myself sharing the news. Phoning friends and relatives, sending messages, a part of the process, sharing the news. With that sharing old connections are remade, the ties of family reinforced, a sadness shared but a warmth shared too. Friends and family gather, the telephone rings more often, voices distance but familiar. A face not seen in a long time but no matter. People appear on the doorstep. Friends show they care. Conversations are long and thoughtful, useful and comforting.

This week 100 people with gather for her funeral, delayed for various reasons until now. In the last few days I’ve begun to dread this stop on the journey. I don’t want to travel in a funeral car, I don’t like hearses but I don’t have a choice, it’s part of the process. I’ve been waking in the night my heart racing from strange unknown dreams, a feeling of dread. The dread has been lifted by friends, who have wrapped me in their warmth. Simple things; encouraged me to run amongst budding trees under blue skies, made pizza while our children played, sat in the sunshine with takeaway cups of tea and chips. Welcome distractions and positive reminders of good things. This week we will share a rite of passage a part of life with family and friends, some not seen in years, we will gather together. It will be sad but it will also be a reminder of all that is good and that while life is sometimes isn’t as you’d hoped, it hurts, it’s sad, it disappoints, sometimes life makes you screaming angry. But mostly life is wonderful. People are wonderful, friends and family are wonderful.
Gather the wonderful close and treasure it.

Being a Mother

There’s a lot said about Mothers; I’ve read that Motherhood is boring. Being a Mother is exhausting and tiring. Mothers are dull. Working Mothers, single Mothers, stay at home Mothers…. there’s always an opinion being banded around.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever.

Being a Mother and watching your child ride a bike for the first time.
A swell of pride, a broad grin, wanting to cry but knowing that would be ridiculous. Crying a little anyway. Tears and smiles. A feeling of joy at the first tentative wobbles.

Creating a wonderful memory of standing in the Winter’s cold watching your ‘baby’ cycle away from you, finding a confidence with each turn of the pedal; independent, growing up and very proud.

At that moment being a Mother is perfect.

Right here. Right now.

It’s Friday evening, we’ve returned from a long day out and forgotten to put the heating on ‘timed’. Outside it’s sleeting. The house is cold. I’m still in my coat, with the addition of the hood up. I don’t like cold. The small boy is watching TV and acting as a Batman hot water bottle, warming me. I have a cup of tea. Waiting for fish and chips. I am ‘fiddling’ with my phone. That thing you do when you have wifi again. Bouncing around from Facebook to Twitter, to emails, to instagram. Catching up on things missed. A prompt for the Gallery “Literally take a photo of whatever you’re doing when you read this prompt” Said Tara. Who I am to disagree? The small boy is briefly distracted. Me Right Now. Friday evening used to be; music, wine, clothes, shoes, makeup, plans, expectation, phone calls. The prelude to Friday night out. Here I am in my coat waiting for the central heating and fish and chips – that makes me smile.

His Shoes

Wednesday and The Gallery, this week’s theme is Shoes.

Birth

The theme for this week’s Gallery is Birth. The vast majority who take part in the Gallery are ‘ Mummy bloggers’ (forgive me for that all-encompassing description) obviously there is the fine exceptions of some ‘Dad bloggers’ but generally my audience today is Mums. So, what did you wear to give birth?

I’m better now I’ve had a child, but previously, I really did not want to listen to people’s birth stories. When I was pregnant I researched push chairs, while other people read pregnancy books and made birth plans.

See-saw (or how I left my child)

I’m posting this in the week before Cybermummy and next weekend along with many other blogger parents I shall be leaving my family AGAIN!
I posted about my concerns about leaving my son for a girlie getaway (here). So what was the outcome? Of course, we both survived.
On Friday morning, I sat on the edge of bed as my three year old slept, stroking his hair and kissing his face, willing him to wake up, but knowing there would be tears (possibly, on both sides) when I left if he did. I slipped away early in the morning. Excited to be out in the early light giggling in whispers with my friends, only cats seemed to be awake. We loaded the car and headed for the airport. I felt wretched for not saying goodbye properly. The see-saw of feelings summed up the weekend. Loving the moment but experiencing that drop off of ‘maternal tugs’ that brings you back down to earth.
It was liberating to travel with only hand luggage, not only to give two fingers to cheap airline baggage charges, but also as the last time I flew it involved bags, a buggy, a car seat and a fair amount of stress.
Since becoming a parent I’ve developed a morbid obsession with death, without wishing to dwell on it here, I don’t think I’m alone as a parent to entertain such fears and concerns. It’s not a great thought combination when flying, however many glossy magazines you have.

As a break it was a wonderful indulgence to not have to consider a child, to wander unhindered around duty free, to wake up at my own pace, to read a book on beach for hours, to climb a hill and mostly to have long uninterrupted conversations. To enjoy a night out knowing I had only myself to think of the following day (as a consequence I drank far too much tequila).

it makes you happy

A friend, who’d left 2 children behind commented that it felt ‘very adult’ and it did. As for the see-saw of feelings – Did I miss him? Hell yes!after a couple of days, 4 days began to feel like a long time, I think a weekend in London for Cybermummy will be a much better balance.

identities have been protected

On his part, he slept badly, woke very early and didn’t eat much, I have a dual response to that; ‘Yes! I was missed’ and the opposing ‘my poor baby’ (that see-saw again).

and then it was gone

I took the advice from my last post and left notes and some books. That certainly helped, staying near to home and keeping routine helped from his end.
This weekend we do it all again, but I think with greater confidence, less see-saw more swings and roundabouts.

Mother Love

The Gallery this week is Mother Love, when I see the prompt for the Gallery I usually go with my initial reaction. This week it was my mother, as I am sure it was for many others. I’ve posted briefly about her before, also in The Gallery.
She doesn’t know about this blog and she doesn’t use the internet. Since reading the prompt I’ve been turning over in my mind whether I should write this post. I recognise that being (relatively) anonymous it affords me freedom.  I know my mother would be mortified if she ever read this post, for several reasons, that I think will become apparent. Ultimately, I decided this is my blog and my space and while it is her reality, it is also very much mine.

My mother and I have always had a complicated relationship, I won’t go into detail because this is only my point of view, I will sum of it up by saying I am glass half full and she is more glass half empty.

In the last couple of years she’s been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t talk about it and doesn’t want anyone to know. She has never been a confident person and always anxious. The illness impacts on her memory and so further erodes her confidence. Think for a moment how much you rely on the clarity of your memory and how fundamental it is……

She has become more anxious and this manifests itself in constant checking. She checks for her handbag, then she checks for her glasses and then again and then again. She presents a problem, you give her solution and she presents it again and again. I find it really stressful.  It creates a barrier in her relationship with my son. It invariably goes the same way, he has a very clear speaking voice, but, as he speaks she speaks over the top of his words “what’s he saying?” anxious she won’t understand.  He tells her about a toy and she responds with “you are gorgeous”. She becomes confused and more anxious, I explain what he’s said. He tries again and she’ll say “I tell all my friends how gorgeous you are”.  He doesn’t understand. She worries constantly that he will hurt himself. Which I find claustrophobic.

My parents live on a road where they know everyone. She is surrounded by structure and routine. Familiarity. Socially, she mixes with people she’s know since she was a child and she shares with them her clearest memories. My Dad has always been a man of infinite patience.

One the areas that have always separated us is her emphasis on tidying, cleaning and housework, something I don’t share. The photograph above is her dressing table, as it is now. The last time I visited I caught sight of her dressing table. It really brought home how far her illness had progressed. I stood before it, simply shocked. My Dad stood next to me, he explained he can’t keep on top of everything and he just lets it go. It felt terribly sad to realize that she has no idea how her former self would be appalled by the current state of her dressing table.

I rang her on Mother’s day. She was very emotional and told me how much she loved me, that’s a positive element of her illness because, honestly, until she was ill it was something she never said. For me, Mother Love is a complicated thing.

 

Pop over to Tara’s fab blog Sticky Fingers and discover everyone else’s Mother Love