1. Boycott a product you don’t really use. We’re talking crunchy breastfeeders here, who I assume are more likely to be shopping at their farmer’s market than picking up a bag o’ Twix.
2. Organize the insular breastfeeding Twitter community.
3. Turn off the formula feeders… because really, it’s about formula and Nestle’s failure to adhere to the WHO Code, which apparently is causing all of us dumb formula-feeding moms to be misled into saving our babies’ lives.
4. Pick a week when the usage of said product is at its peak and a 100 mom boycott is least likely to be noticed. (I get why you picked the week. I just think that it’s not going to be noticed.)
5. Confuse the hell out of people so they don’t know why they are boycotting. I’ve read a couple of posts lately where others seem confused by the boycott. I get the breastfeeding angle, though I’m not sure I agree, but the rest?! I don’t know why I’m supposed to hate them. I know why I don’t shop at Wal-mart, and I can articulate my position in under a minute with three talking points. Get Michael Moore on Nestle. Then maybe I’ll understand.
I’m not really one to wax nostalgic about my child growing up. Posts about babies turning one have a tendency to make me twitch a bit, mostly because I love watching my son grow up and rather than being saddened by his independence, I love it.
Until this week. That’s when I experienced my first moment of panic, where I realized that my son is no longer a baby. I almost cried. (At least it was only almost.)
He’s potty-trained. He starts real preschool next week. He even has a big boy haircut (but don’t worry, the curls will return). What happened to that little boy who gnawed on his fingers, staring up into the Baby Einstein star that could mesmerize him for hours? How did he get to be a child who could tell me that there are “two lights?”
The real reason I’m sad is that I know this stage, the funny, cute-phrased, mis-said phase is short-lived. Kellen already went from thinking his name was “AMMMYYYY” to knowing it’s Kellen. I know it’s only a short time that he’ll like snuggling up in the crook of my elbow to read the “Be butt” book about hippos and their belly b’s. Soon he won’t call cheerios and yogurt “breakfast” but instead will just ask for them by name. I know that it’s only a matter of time before he sees a world that extends beyond his mommy, one where girls (or boys- I’m not partial!) can comfort him in a way that his mother cannot. He’s going to leave the safety of jumping off the stairs where I’m there to catch him to jumping, really jumping, into life’s challenges, without knowing if there’s someone there to catch him.
Today I am nostalgic. When I kiss Kellen good-night I try to remember how the sweetness of his smell, the way his mouth turns up and he sucks on his binky when he hears my voice even when he’s deeply sleeping, the fact that he loves his “kiger” and “goggie” and needs them for sleep and the way he rubs doggy’s tail over his eyelids to sooth himself into slumber. I want to remember all of this. Because he’s growing up.