What I learned from over two years in baby care

This entry is neither a shameless plugging of a baby diaper brand, nor a disclosure of marketing strategies and secrets.

Let me start off by saying -- even after 2 years and 3 months of handling Pampers, I’m still no expert.

Unlike most P&Gers, I still have to consult a price list when asked about the pricing of my 34 SKU’s; I don’t know the relative pricing between Pampers and its competitors; answers to questions on value share, channel salience, birth rates per birthing center type, penetration and consumption are far from automatic; and I’m pitifully clueless about trade margins.

On the flipside, in fairness to me, I’ve memorized the variant – diaper size – diaper pack combinations of my entire SKU lineup; the brand’s visual equity guidelines are second nature; with all the practice I got, I can whip up pretty mean bundle packs and on-shelf communication materials; and I like to think I know diaper consumers like I know my closest friends.

But the most important things I’ve learned go way beyond business management, marketing communication, and the physics and technology of disposable baby diapers.

First, I learned about babies. Before joining P&G, I had never liked them. They would screw up the ambience in nice restaurants with their bawling. They would scamper around church during the most solemn parts of the Mass. And they would do nonsensical tricks (beautiful eyes, what the hell!?) that grown-ups, for some reason, would find SO cute.

But over the last two years, I’ve looked into the bassinets of thirty-minute-old, freshly cleaned babies—tight -eyed and open-mouthed and toothless and wriggling and tender-skinned—and realized that thirty minutes before, these babies had not been in this world. I’ve seen mothers spend their days carrying their babies, feeding them, and rocking them to sleep, deriving their whole raison-d’etre from doing nothing but that. And I’ve seen the pride and accomplishment on both the moms’ and baby’s faces, when baby suddenly sits up, stands, walks, or calls her “mama.”

Wonder is abundant during the first months of every human life, and I guess I've realized that babies aren’t all that nonsensical after all.

Second, I learned about our government. Like everyone else, I love to bitch about potholes and corrupt policemen and awful pink pedestrian overpasses and that hellhole called the LTO, and wonder where the hell in all this my tax money goes.

Surprise, there are actually people in government who are doing their job and making lives better for Filipinos.

Before Pampers, I had never before stepped into a public health center, let alone a government maternity hospital. But while handling Pampers, I saw midwives in action at health centers, teaching moms to care for their babies, convincing them of the importance of breastfeeding, urging them to have regular pre-natal check-ups and post-natal immunizations, scolding those who missed the free twice-a-year mothers’ classes. And I saw the nurses at Fabella, the country’s biggest maternity hospital, scrambling to deliver 2,000 babies a month in a place where there is a ratio of two mother-baby pairs to a single bed, and there are urban legends (or are they?) of babies getting switched and being abandoned by mothers who can't afford them -- easily the most surreal, shocking, eye-opening place I'd ever been.

In both Fabella and public health centers, the facilities are sorely in need of upgrading, the services are basic, and the staffing is desperately lean. But what staff there is, works hard, makes do with what they have, and are genuinely concerned for the welfare of the mothers they serve. And it comforts me and makes me proud that, somewhere in these islands, my tax money is actually doing someone some good.

Third, I learned about Filipinos. In my second month with Pampers, I was doing a one-on-one interview with a mom in the sheltered environment of a consumer research agency in Makati. She told me that in the afternoons, she would take the baby outside for sunshine and exercise. “Sa garden?” I asked naively, imagining a large yard with a lawn and maybe swings and a slide, like those in which my cousins and I grew up. “Hindi, sa labas lang,” she said.

I realized only later on that, this mom—like 88% of Filipinos—didn’t have a garden. Rather, she had an eskenita, flanked by dangerously stacked shantys made of discarded wood and unpainted hollow-block walls, and dotted with dark smelly puddles of days-old water, where she and other moms like her would gather in the afternoons, to gossip about the neighbors and artistas and compare babies, until it was time to go back inside and prepare dinner.

I saw how, to such moms, one peso—no, one centavo—would make a difference. Down to the second decimal place, they would memorize the prices of the smallest packs of instant noodles, vinegar, vetsin, laundry soap, shampoo, infant milk and diapers--and any increase would force them to wonder how they would make their husband’s meager earnings as a construction worker, scrap collector, or jeepney driver last the whole week.

On lucky days, they would go to nearby supermarkets—but for the first time in my life I saw a mom declare her budget upon getting to the check-out counter, and be told by the cashier that the last few purchases were already out of that budget. And mom just sighed, paid for the items that she could afford, and resolved to come back for the rest the next payday.

But amidst this struggle, I saw how these people still found never-ending reasons to be proud, and be happy. The discovery of a cheaper product that’s serves the family’s needs anyway, and lets the household budget stretch just a little farther. The eldest son who comes home with news that he’s getting a medal, after all the studying he’s put in. The gruff “thank you” from the man of the house, who comes home exhausted at the end of the day and notices the great job his wife has done keeping everything clean. The baby who smiles up at her in recognition, every time she picks him up. And the hope that, if they their family just keeps working and trusting hard enough, things will get better one day. In P&G's language of market segmentation, these moms are called “resourceful optimists”—and seeing how they smile despite everything life throws at them, it’s not hard to see why.

Fourth and most importantly, I learned about mothers. A mother's love is underestimated. A mother's love will always be underestimated.

Nothing in mothers' lives is more important than caring for their children. Every day they wake up before sunrise to start preparing the kids’ breakfast and see them off to school. During the course of the day’s chores, they drop everything if the baby starts crying. They put off buying things for themselves, and choose to spend on things for the children first. When baby is sick and cries non-stop, the mother’s world falls apart, with the financial burden but more so with the emotional burden of the baby’s pain.

Asked what their greatest wishes in life are, they invariably give two answers—“a good education for my baby, so he can have a better life than mine” and “a house of our own, for our children to grow up in.” And these wishes drive mothers in all they do—whether it’s putting aside every extra centavo for the child’s schooling, helping older children with their studies, or looking for opportunities as DH’s and waitresses abroad, with the knowledge that life as an OFW is their ticket to a good future. And you can’t help but admire them for their devotion to and sacrifices for their children—and be thankful for the devotion and sacrifices your own mother gave you.

So, even after two years, I'll admit that I still haven't learned the nitty-gritty of running a baby diaper business. But learning about a baby's worth, a public health worker's dedication, the Filipino's strength, and a mother's love will last long after the books have been closed.

Starting June, I’ll be moving on to a radically new world. In place of provincial health centers, eskinitas and public markets, I’ll be concerning myself with spas, condominiums, and department stores. My mission will no longer be to care for baby’s health and development, but to make women feel younger and more desirable. With a new category to learn about, I’ll soon forget what facts and figures I memorized from baby care.

But even if I do move on and forget the little details, the eye-opening and life-changing lessons I learned on the way will always stay. And there will always be enough wide-eyed babies and devoted mothers in the world to make sure these lessons do.