"Hi everybody!" a
sweet female voice was overheard saying.
"Hi," the group
replied.
"I've been on the
wagon for one day, eight hours and four minutes now. I am suffering from real
withdrawal symptoms: the shakes, mood swings, lack of sleep, trouble
focusing," the voice stammered. "My name is Refaela, and I'm a
Milkaholic."
Heads nodded in knowing
forlorn understanding.
"Before I went off the
breast milk-sauce, I was a real tata terrorist," Refaela continued.
"It was screaming and wailing for the boob to feed on demand all of the
time."
"How old were you when
you stopped a few days ago?" the therapist asked.
"I was just shy of
nine months," Refaela said. "I'm nine months today actually and it's
been a rough birthday. Not being able to enjoy a celebratory drink...it's just
been tough."
Deep in the bowels of a
trendy downtown loft building, home to the best obstetricians, pediatricians,
lactation consultants and psychoanalysts, babies of a variety of ages, all
addicted to breast milk and formula, were seated in a circle on an alphabet
BPA, PVC, phalate and Formamide-free foam mat. The usual suspects were all
there for group therapy: the Stella McCartney clad fashionistas, the Petit
Bateau and Bonpoint snobs, the Gap-ad babies and the Tarjay crowd. One baby
clutched her Whoozit for security, giving her an extra measure of
self-confidence to broach her addiction demons. Another baby, like a former
smoker chewing on a fake cigarette, fingered an empty bottle, not able to
completely give up his crutch. The rest sat around with a vacant expression in
their eyes, wondering if the void left in their empty bellies would ever be
filled again.
"You'll make it
through," a baby boy named Henry, dressed in a sailor suit, offered.
"I was a little older than you when I became a teetotaler - eleven
months."
“Why did you stop?” asked
Refaela.
“It was time to transition
to homo milk according to the doctor,” Henry replied.
“Homo milk tastes good!”
the therapist interrupted encouragingly.
“Homo milk is garbage! You
can only have twenty ounces a day and it is full of fat! It was all a
conspiracy concocted by the doctor and my mother who stopped breastfeeding me
because I bit her,” Henry continued ignoring the therapist.
“You bit her?” Refaela
asked in shock.
“I was just trying to
savour the last drop,” the boy explained.
“Please continue with your
story, Refaela,” the therapist instructed.
“Mama couldn't take it
anymore,” Refaela continued. “Finally she stopped breastfeeding me cold turkey,
expecting to replace her liquid gold with formula.”
“My mama tried that with me
too!” a little girl named Jeanette exclaimed. “She claimed it was for my own
good, giving me a song and dance about my being lactose intolerant or some
mumbo jumbo like that.”
“Good for you,” a little
boy named Oscar cheered.
“Don’t be so proud of me,”
Jeanette said in shame, “after a few weeks of the soy-based formula, there was
no going back. I was hooked. And now that I am on regular milk, my halcyon days
of breast milk and formula are long behind me.”
“If you are off the breast
milk and formula then why are you here?” Refaela asked.
“Post-traumatic stress
disorder,” Jeanette said. “It is like I am a war vet experiencing phantom limb
syndrome. I feel like there is
always a breast in my mouth, but there’s none.”
“Well, I did not have such
an easy transition to formula like you did. I spat it out. Clamped my lips
together and refused to allow the rubber nipple to intrude my sacrosanct
mouth,” Refaela informed the group. “Mama eventually grew tired of our little
dance. So she spiked my formula with vanilla extract not realizing that it
contained thirty-five percent proof alcohol.”
“Did you drink it?” a
little Bonpoint-clad boy asked.
“I did,” Refaela said
bowing her head in shame. “My cheeks were flushed, my hair a mess – I was
drunk!”
“Ooh!” the therapist
exclaimed. “1-800-bad-mama!”
“No, no,” Refaela
retreated, “don’t get me wrong. Mama was not aware of the alcohol content and
as soon as she realized her mistake, she replaced the vanilla extract with a
non-alcoholic variety.”
“A synthetic? For a baby!”
a little four-year old girl named Esmeralda exclaimed haughtily. “My mother
would NEVER feed me anything artificial!”
“Pipe down Esmeralda,” the
therapist ordered. “Don’t be the pot calling the kettle black! Remember why you
are here?”
Heads whipped around to
stare down the little girl, the oldest in the group, to shame her. Despite her
outward protest and her bohemian appearance, dressed head-to-toe in
eco-friendly organic clothing, the little girl was a sheep in wolf’s clothing.
“I’m sorry, I really am
working on it,” Esmeralda explained to the group.
“It’s not like I was on the
vanilla powder for long. A few bottles into the formula and I was obsessed,”
Refaela stated. “Really once it hit my lips, I lost all control. And now they
want to take it away from me to replace it with something they keep calling
‘solids.’”
“Still, your mother should
have only given you natural vanilla,” Esmeralda stated.
“Enough!” chastised the
therapist. “It is not like your mother is up for mother of the year!”
Refaela looked on in
confusion, uncertain why Esmeralda was being castigated for her personal
beliefs.
“Sorry for the criticism. I
get it, those who live in glass cribs should not throw rattles,” Esmeralda
apologized.
“It’s ok,” Refaela offered,
“we all have our problems.”
“Well my mother pretends to
breastfeed me to placate her attachment parenting group friends, but in reality
she got a breast reduction when I was eight months old,” Esmeralda explained.
“I don’t understand,”
Refaela said. “What’s an attachment parent?”
“Amongst other things, it
is a parent who believes in letting baby sleep with the parents and breastfeed
until they are forty,” Oscar stated flatly.
“Oscar!” the therapist
warned, “what have I told you before?”
“I know, I know. There is
no judgment here. This is a safe place,” Oscar replied sheepishly.
“When is your next
Opinionated Babies help group meeting?” the therapist asked.
“Tomorrow at three after my
nap,” Oscar replied.
“Try to hold off on passing
condemnation until then,” the therapist pleaded. “Please continue Esmeralda.”
“Well, mommy stopped
breastfeeding me when I was six months old, but she keeps making me drink
breast milk from the bottle. Before her boob job she took all of these crazy
herbs and Dom Perignon.” Esmeralda continued.
“It is called ‘Dom
Peridone’,” the therapist corrected, “try to use the correct terminology
please.”
“Excuse me,” Esmeralda said
sarcastically, “Dom Peridone, to increase her milk supply so that she would
have tons of breast milk – enough to feed me until I turn six years old”
Esmeralda explained.
“I still don’t understand,”
Refaela said.
“She makes me drink all of
this breast milk out of a nasty bottle, but she makes me pretend to breastfeed
when we are out in public around her attachment parent friends. She stuck me in
Milkaholics Anonymous so that I could ‘detox’ from her breast in a safe place.”
“How long have you been
coming?” Refaela asked.
“Three years, six months and
ten days!” Esmeralda exclaimed. “Do you have any idea what she is doing to my
developing psyche?!”
The babies all started to
wail and scream reminded of the salad days of breastfeeding, a band of brothers
and sisters suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder induced by their
united experience of being denied the breast.
“Stop crying! Do I need to
remind you that the Leche League is one floor below us and will shut us down if
they find out that this is not really a group for babies with latching issues?
“the therapist ordered. “Esmeralda, we’ll come back to your psyche before group
ends today, but for now it is still Refaela’s turn so please remember to share
the time and let her finish her story.”
“So now I am on solids and
life is just so bland,” Refaela continued.
“But solids are full of a
variety of flavours – chicken, beef, pasta, veggies, fruit,” the therapist
explained. “Not to mention the fact that they are chalk full of hearty
nutrients.”
“Nothing tastes as good as
breast milk or formula feels trickling down your throat like a babbling brook
on a hot summer’s day,” Refaela said.
“Isn’t there a hint of
breast milk or formula still in your cereal?” Jeanette asked. “My mommy still
gives me a little there.”
“And you wonder why you
suffer from PTSD?” the therapist asked.
“Nope, not a single drop,”
Refaela stated flatly.
“I just don’t understand
these parents of ours. Honestly, they should be reported to child protective
services. To deny us breast milk or formula is criminal,” a little girl named
Harmony cried.
“Harmony, don’t be so
melodramatic. There is nothing criminal or abusive in providing babies with
every opportunity to eat every food on our wonderful green Earth,” the
therapist offered.
“Nothing abusive? You call
taking me off breast milk to give me peanut butter that put me into
anaphylactic shock, forcing me to carry around an epi-pen until the end of my
days, which we now know could be at any time, not abusive? I think you are the
one in need of therapy!” Harmony screamed.
“We’ve been over this for
months – your parents did not know that you had a peanut allergy,” the
therapist explained. “Your parents love you and only want to give you only the
best.”
“Well peanut butter
certainly cannot be called the “best.” Just ask my lawyer,” Harmony stated.
“Harmony, now is not the
time to air your dirty laundry about your lawsuit against your parents,” the
therapist whispered through her teeth. “They did not try to kill you!”
“Maybe they did not ‘try’
to kill me, but they were utterly negligent in taking me off the best source of
nutrients that kept me alive for twelve months only to replace it with
something that nearly shortened my life in one lick,” Harmony replied. “And
then after their shoddy parenting they don’t give me back the breast milk or at
least formula? Haven’t I suffered enough?”
“Harmony, we will take this
offline and deal with it in our weekly private therapy session,” the therapist
stated.
All of a sudden, one
toddler broke free from the shackles of the circle in an effort to run out of
the room. Before he got very far, a tiny pacifier fell out of his pocket and
several of the babies in the circle lunged for it. Bewildered by the group
hysteria over the presence of a simple pacifier, especially when each baby had
one of its own, the therapist sat back in slight amusement to study the
animal-like instinct to hunt for it. Suddenly, she noticed out of the corner of
her eye that little drops of white liquid that dripped out of the pacifier and
onto the floor. Quickly realizing
what it was, but before she could hide the sight of the substance from the
milk-seeking missile radar of the ravenous addicts before her looking to score
a quick hit, Oscar honed in on the few drops on the floor and licked them up.
“OSCAR!” the therapist
wailed, “NO!!!!!”
“Ah, that was good,” Oscar
said lying back in a snow angel position high off the taste of breast milk.
“What was that?” the
therapist shrieked at the toddler named Geo while pointing at the pacifier.
“It was my suckifier,” Geo
replied. “It is designed to hold fluids.”
“What’s a suckifier?” Oscar
inquired excitedly.
“It’s basically a dummy
pacifier that contains a few shots-worth of breast milk,” Geo explained.
“How could you even think
of bringing that in here? Are you trying to derail everyone’s progress after
months and in some cases years of therapy?” the therapist asked.
“My nanny feels bad for me.
She doesn’t understand why my mother denies me what she was made to give me,”
Geo stated firmly. “Back home in Venezuela, they breastfeed until babies are
three years old and it breaks nanny’s heart. So she never threw away my mommy’s
frozen breast milk.”
“So she harms you by
filling up dummy pacifier for you when you need a little pick-me up?” the
therapist asked rhetorically. “Are you telling me that after all of this time,
after two years of working together, you had me believing that you were on the
wagon when you were still on breast milk?”
Geo nodded his head in slow
motion. Refaela looked around the room at the hungry empty eyes of all of the
other babies no longer seated in a circle, her ears ringing from their rumbling
bellies craving one more taste of the sweet nectar of the gods. Determined not to end up like Geo or
the others, all of whom were hollows shells of their former selves, Refaela
mentally fortified herself to let go of all of her memories of the good times
she shared with her breast milk and formula. Willing to embrace the world of
solids to hopefully become a gourmand like her parents, Refaela steadied herself
on her knees, pulling to stand with the assistance of a chair to her right,
prepared to take her leave of the group with confidence.
“I want to thank you for
having me here today, but I don’t think I will be coming back. I wish you all
the best of luck, but having witnessed the tragic effects that being a
Milkaholic has wreaked on all of your lives, I can say that I am ready to give
up breast milk and formula,” Refaela announced. “I am ready to be a foodie!”
The group of babies looked
up at Refaela standing stoically, observing her truly believing that she would
succeed where they had all failed. They smiled encouragingly, yet they knew the
statistics, she would likely be back to group in a week.
“I wish you the best of
luck and remind you that this is a twelve-step process,” the therapist advised
holding Refaela’s hand. “We are here if you need us.”
“And, in case you become a
gastronomy snob who only will eat in five-star restaurants, there is always ‘Foodies Anonymous,” Oscar
offered. “I go three times a week and it is down the hall.”
© 2012. Naomi Elana Zener. All rights reserved.
