the modernity ward

Oh My God, Breastmilk Will Give Your Baby Cancer!

Wait, no. No, that's not it at all. Although I'm sure that's the headline I'll read in the paper tomorrow, revealing that 1) most "science" writing is either left to, or filtered by, oatmeal-brained executives who wouldn't know a p-value if it ran down their legs, and 2) it is possible to completely bury the thrust of a study such that the general public comes away with the completely wrong idea. Even my beloved Jezebel is guilty of this practice, with the headline "Breast Maybe Not Best for Babies' Balls."

Yeah, I get the hilarious alliteration, but really, really missing the point here.

Here, a sensible rundown of the new study. While there is a link between exposure of the breastfeeding mother to hazardous chemicals such as PCBs and testicular cancer in the child, the answer is not "well, how about formula then." NO NO NO.

The answer is NO MORE PCBs. The answer is NO MORE HAZARDOUS PESTICIDES. God, it seems like such a no-brainer to me -- why focus on the poisoned milk when we should focus on the FUCKING POISON?

I'll tell you why. Patriarchy. No, really.

It is so much easier, so much more profitable to the powers that be, to aim the blame at women -- mothers breastfeeding their children! The world goes into a tizzy about "breast or bottle?" and meanwhile, nobody is talking about the wholesale poisoning of the world! It's the old divide-and-conquer: if we're all too busy getting butthurt about baby feeding, maybe we won't notice the guys with the 55-gallon drum glupping glow-in-the-dark goo into the river.

Even better is the idea that mothers are poisoning their baby boys. Oh, you evil women! Will you stop at nothing?

The whole argument places all the agency, all the responsibility, upon women, who, last I checked, did not have a whole lot of choice as to the quantity of PCB and hormone mimickers stored in their body fat. It's a sham, a lie, a straw-woman. The mothers have nothing to do with it. The breastmilk is not the problem.

The chemicals are the problem. The collusion of government and industry to ensure that this evil stuff gets into our water, our soil, our bodies, our babies -- that's the problem. And it's not a breastfeeding mother's problem, it's not a women's problem -- it's everyone's problem. That shit doesn't just go straight into breastmilk and stay there.

I'll know we're improving the second that someone looks at a study like that, and the first thing out of that person's mouth is "How can we stop the chemical contamination?" And not "is breast really best?"

What to do in the meantime? I'm taking suggestions. In the personal sphere, buy as organic or integrated pest management as you can (not for the health benefits, and that's another post in itself, the so-called "takedown" of the "organic myth", but because every organic strawberry you buy is that much less fungicide into the waterways, as well as into your mouth), especially the high-contamination foods. Don't use personal care products with phthalates and other endocrine disruptors. (How can you tell when they're not on the label? Avoid anything with "fragrance," for one. And yeah, that includes air freshener and Glade). Here's a nice starter list of things to do.

But what about the subject of the study -- the effect of geographical location? That's a hairy one, and even more tied up with privilege than the stuff I listed above. I don't know the answer, and I hope someone comments who does. I do know there are a lot of locally based groups who work on this kind of thing -- like BURNT here, and MOMS (Make Our Milk Safe) in California. There's also Moms Rising.  Pay attention to the local news, because this stuff, it happens locally. It happens in your backyard, in your town, in your watershed. That's where you can fight it.

And on that note, I'm off to order my No Spray Nashville sign.

I Am Just, Like, the Worst Pregnant Lady Ever. Or the Best.

Last time around I was so very careful. I was Model Infertile Pregnant Lady who would clearly Do Anything to protect her Precious Fetus. I went around not drinking coffee and not eating soft cheese and not having lunch meat and taking the expensive prenatals that still allow you to poop when you feel like it might be a good idea; I eschewed nonpasteurized juices and god knows what else, Hair dye. Probably haircuts period. My moisturizer because it had some botanical whoozywhatsis that might possibly be unresearched. Benzoyl peroxide. Of course all the deprivation drove me to self-medicate with Lucky Charms. Serotonin, don't you know.

Nowadays I'm doing everything short of riding helmetless on a Harley: devouring raw eggs with abandon (in the form of batter), mixing and matching vitamin cocktails to approximate a reasonable intake of folic acid, smearing myself with Clearasil and this Burt's Bees serum in turns. Cold lunch meat? Grocery store sushi? I don't fear the listeria. I choke down a half cup of coffee in the morning, not because I like it anymore, but because if I don't I will be collapsed in a migrainish heap by ten a.m. I had to start with iced tea and Coke while the nausea raged, but I'm working my way back to the hard stuff.

And remember that whole Fifth Disease flap a few posts back? You know what I've done about it? Diddly shit, that's what. I don't worry about contracting CMV from preschool either. And I plan to get a blue streak in my hair, once it's a little longer. (Of course the peroxide and dye will not so much as touch my scalp, but still.)

Hindsight being what it is, it is clear to me now that while pregnant and most certainly for at least four months postpartum, I had an undiagnosed (well, technically, unreported) anxiety disorder. And a flare-up of OCD. (I can hear you laughing, Kateri.) It was a lot of fun: paralyzing anxiety over the smallest car trip that often degenerated into my screaming at myself and either slapping or biting myself, intrusive thoughts of many unpleasant flavors, and a whole lot of handwashing.

And remember my plastics freakout? (Which you can find on my old blog, in the left sidebar.) Yeah. That was part of it too. Not that I'm microwaving saran wrap now or anything. But I do own a few "safe" plastic items, and I am actually able to touch them without fear.

Did the craziness of a surprising pregnancy after years of fertility struggles -- coupled with the stress of moving to a new city in my third trimester (to a truly horrible house) -- trigger the attack? Or was it, hormonally speaking, a set-up? I don't know. I thought for a while I was just really high-strung, but this time around I'm not so sure. I can't bring myself to get worked up over much at all, and while that's partially the UNRELENTING FATIGUE, it may also be reflective of generally improved mental health.

I've made arrangements to deal if I have another postpartum meltdown, but the pregnancy itself feels so different. The prospect of actually having a baby in the midst of friends and support network -- why, it's revolutionary! Not moving to a strange city while enormously pregnant? How unusual! Why has no one thought of this before?

I don't know that I can take credit for my relative Zen calm if I'm just too tired/sloppy/busy/lazy to care. But I can certainly enjoy it. With a side of raw fish.

(Hey, there are limits.)

Two Things

First, a nifty trick for setting up a glass baby bottle in a pinch. With a name like Smuckers, it has to be BPA-free!

Second, preschool. Man oh Manischewitz. Sophia had a bit of a meltdown when gently asked to climb down from a chair (it was time for music circle), because while she is impervious to the most furious mama-yelling, she will weep for days over the gentlest (perceived) correction. "Watch out, honey, your fingers might get caught in the drawer!" once derailed an entire Thanksgiving dinner, leaving extended family members baffled and guilty. Then there was some sort of incident I didn't see in which "a boy HIT me!" and I had no idea whether it had been a deliberate cuff or an accidental brushing. We've been talking about what to do when someone hits/pushes/otherwise manhandles us, which entails informing the hitter "Don't hit me! Hitting hurts!" and seeking the help of an adult if needed, and she was eventually able to practice on her friends (harmless brush-by push, gave her a reason to work her skills), but she freezes, deer in headlights, when confronted with most kids.

Three things leave me hopeful, though. 1) would be the wonderful teacher M, who seems to totally get Sophia and was full of good suggestions for how to work with her. 2) was the fact that, when asked how preschool went, Sophia grinned big and said, "Gooooood!" 3) is the nap we both took upon arrival home. Two solid hours, man. And she's still tired enough for bed.

As am I. Shadrach, Meshach, and to bed we go.

TGIF! OMG! LOL!

Yeah, so I farted a whole lot yesterday, and Sean gave me a shoulder rub, and voila! All better. Thank you all for your words of commiseration and understanding. And also for thinking I am funny. Because after reading over my pregnant-with-Sophia posts (Leery Polyp archives, beginning in December 2004), I am thinking my funny must have squirted out my hoo-ha along with an eight-pound baby, a somewhat elderly placenta, and what felt like forty quarts of gakk.

So, over the interminable weekend, allow me too suggest the following reading:

A stark yet evenhanded rundown of recent events by v. smart lady Sharon Astyk. Very important.

A tiny bit of awesome news -- funnier still, I realized it was written by one of my old runnin' crew. Cheers to you, other v. smart lady. Fight the good fight. By the way, Grist in general is good if you like some good news along with your horrifying Monsanto-related news about the environment.

If you haven't been to I Can Has Cheezburger? yet, you better go. Now.

Have a good weekend, y'all. I'll check in Monday.

Sophia is taking a "nap" in the other room, although frankly there are a lot of clanking sounds coming from that direction. And now someone, I can't imagine who, is rattling the door like an unjustly accused character in a bad prison play. Hmm.

So here's this, about bisphenol A and how the powers that be are kinda sorta waking up to how awful it is. Props to Canada too. May we look forward to a world in which we are not assaulted by hormone mimickers at every turn. Amen. And thanks to Sonya and Ann for the tip.

Um, what else...well, I have just a couple things to do (complete project outline for class tonight, prepare for LLL meeting, go to store and buy #%@&! goat milk that seems to be out of stock everywhere, make supper, clean house just a teeny bit) by 6 p.m. so I'm gonna run, but I'll leave you with this note that I have written in my head to the usually awesome parental denizens of our neighborhood park.

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Dear Hipster Dads, Devoted Mothers, and (one hopes) Adequately Paid Nannies:

When I am watching three children under age 3 at the park, and one of them drops a truck that one of your kids left at the top of a play structure, narrowly missing somebody's head, despite my shouting and ultimately unsuccessful efforts to prevent aforesaid, it is absolutely unhelpful for you to shoot dirty looks at me and my charges and mutter obviously nasty things in various languages. It is also charmless when you see me (shortly thereafter) strap the kids into the stroller and 1) roll your eyes and 2) heave theatrically obvious sighs of relief at each other. I can see you, you jackasses.

Thank you.
&c.

Side note to random daycare ladies we passed as we left the park:

Saying "my, aren't those children big to be riding in a stroller!" will earn you no points with me. (Or, I imagine, with the empathetic crowd at the park.) I hope the gaggle of children you're guiding across the trolley tracks get in a Sharks-vs.-Jets altercation with the kids already in the park. Then every last adult in the goddamn place can blame the others for their out-of-control children.
Best &c.