Pleasure

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The Pleasure Principle

Little ones are created in pleasure. Our bodies are designed to feel physical and emotional pleasure exactly in the act that has procreative potential. Otherwise, why do it over and over? We are biologically programmed to return again and again to the sex act. We might as well revel in the moment and its fruits, namely, our little ones.

There are some parenting schools of thought that have forgotten the pleasure principle in raising the tiny baby who comes into the world a bundle of nerves, more sentient than conscious. The phrase "schools of thought" should be a red flag. The tendency is to succumb to the intellect in the effort to do the best for the child's sake. Instead of our reason, I think the center of parenting practice in those initial months should be the element of pleasure.

Those hot little infant bodies are designed to nestle on a mama's or tata's chest. A woman's breasts are designed to enable her to lie down and feed her little one in the comfort and relaxation of a shared bed. The complex cocktail of a mama’s hormones released at the birth compels her body to protect and celebrate a little body that is her flesh incarnate. (I was a mama ape as I cradled my baby in my arms and buried my nose deep into her crevices. Her hair, fiercely dark and mohawkish, was oily from my touch.) The baby is not a separate entity delivered by fairy tale stork. It is her and her partner's flesh. The mother recognizes that the being of the child is utterly part of her and entirely new. The baby is perfect because it is a perfect expression of pleasure.

It gives me pleasure to sleep with my baby. The first few weeks she slept skin-to-skin on my chest, our bare flesh touching at our hearts. I did this because she was not able to latch and nursing looked like it might be impossible for us. Those were some of the most difficult times I have ever faced and yet now I grateful that her inability to latch gave me permission to hold her so close. This initial bond made it seem natural to sleep with her and to carry her in a sling as much as possible. The idea of her sleeping in a separate room or even riding for extended periods in a baby carriage created cognitive dissonance. It felt wrong. It felt painful for me. Again, the pleasure principle compelled me to be near her both emotionally, which all new parents share, and also physically, which too many parents deny themselves.

And what about the baby? Was I only giving into my own selfish desires to have her near me? Would she have been better off in a crib? There are schools of thought that say just that. I contend the following: NO ONE KNOWS. Especially the experts. And the little ones aren't talking. They are crying. So I have to follow my instincts. My biology compels me to have her near. It compelled me to hear her cries, those newborn cries that were plaintive and wrenching, as just that, cries that directed my actions to go to her and comfort her when she needed it.

Again yesterday another woman "confessed" to me that she still sleeps with her three-year-old daughter. Her pediatrician husband is embarrassed about it. But she isn't. She said that she looks forward to sleeping with her each night. I have heard several moms confess that they have "given in" and taken a nap with their little one. It is as if they are afraid that they will spoil their children by giving into what biology directs them to do.

All too soon they will sleep alone. Then they will be off to college. I say that part of parenting is giving yourself permission to take pleasure in the nurturing act.

Every child is unique. Every parent and every parenting situation is unique. Thus each household will have its own patterns and make choices that fit their philosophies and lifestyles. There is more than one way to raise a child. Yet I wish that more mommas would give up the crib and settle in for an afternoon nap with a baby who will soon be free to explore the limits of their world with the deep physical knowledge that they have a safe and soft--a pleasurable--place to land. Independence at its deepest is dependence.

Time for Change

Please take time to watch this important video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q3ofap_vT_Q

Breaking News

Whatever your politics, you have to admit: hi.lar.i.ous.
You gotta love the snark factor.
I hope McCain develops his own version.
I hope all citizens vote.

Personalize and send this video by following this link:
http://www.cnnbcvideo.com/index.html?r=31274&id=14590-7044595-RCsN3Kx&nid=JH6sV8SYUnjyzSA5XsoRVTE3OTQ4OTA-

Coming to Theaters

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zK1Cb9qj3qQ

Positions

Leonardo da Vinci
Italian Painter, Sculptor and Architect (High Renaissance)
1452-1519

Madonna Litta , 1490-1491

(Hermitage, St. Petersburg, Russia)

I suspect there is something trinitarian in the depiction of the Christ child at the Madonna's breast. There must be theological justifications for Mary's devoted gaze toward the Christ child and the baby's averted gaze from her breast. The baby's posture evokes Christ's naked body being gently removed from the cross as it contorts and needs support, cleaned up of any blood or gore. The baby practically nurses himself as he supports Mary's breast with his hand. The Christ child's hair must be a sign of the times. Who can't resist a curly-haired tot? It also shows that this is no bald-headed infant. This is a toddler. Why this is important, who knows. Perhaps because it hints at Jesus' power. He is no baby. He can do it himself.

Personally I love that Mary is wearing a nursing shirt. (Did those exist in the Renaissance?)

I went in search of breast-feeding images because I have been thinking about how such depictions influenced my own practice. To be fair, the Leonardo image above is not primarily about breast-feeding, of course. Nursing serves a larger purpose by telling a story about Mary and the Christ child. Yet before I had Iza the dominant image I had of breast-feeding involved something similar to what you see above: the baby cradled in the mother's arms and the requisite adoring gaze of mother toward child. The baby nicely, quietly-dare I say serenely--rested in the mother's arms. The mother's arms felt no fatigue. Rather she was suffused with motherly love and gentle thoughts.

I am not quite sure how or when I developed this romanticized notion. Certainly I grew up exposed to nursing mothers and have fond memories of attending La Leche League meetings as a young girl, primarily because they had a buffet, which I found terribly exciting at the age of four. My naiveté ironically may be the product of my wordly experience. I waited until I was thirty-three to have my child. Perhaps the years intervening between my childhood immersed in a nursing culture and the time that I become a mother allowed my imagination to turn breast-feeding into a caricature. Seriously, the first six weeks of learning how to breast-feed were more difficult than labor and delivery.

Forget serenity. (Well, those moments do happen. Hooray for prolactin and oxytocin, calming hormones produced while nursing.) What I learned is that those little, hot bodies are first and foremost hungry at the breast. There is commotion. Rooting, drooling, dripping, gagging, crying, whimpering, etc. As the baby gets older and her hunger is both for food and comfort, there is rolling, pinching, scratching, tugging, and let-me-take-your-nipple-with-me-as-I-turn-my-head-and-check-out-who-just-walked-in-the-door fun.

In the beginning, mama must sit until the sitting takes on a new, possibly unexplored, state of Zen.

Hooray for the iPhone. Mama can read a novel! read the New York Times! Facebook! all while nursing.

And then mama discovers nursing while lying down in bed. Wow. And she thinks: I will never sit up to nurse again. And then she discovers that you can do the "lean down" and offer the top breast too without having to get up and move to the other side of the baby.

And then mama discovers that you can nurse with the baby in a sling while waiting in line to board an airplane. Hands-free.

And then mama discovers that you can nurse with the baby in an Ergo carrier. In this carrier the baby sits up and straddles your waist. The baby nurses while sitting up. I had no idea this was possible. Leonardo did not portray this. Possibly the trinitarian symbolism would have been thwarted.

If I were an artist, here is the composition I would arrange:

Mama calming baby before they get into the bath. Mama sitting on the edge of the bathtub, water running, a few select bath toys bobbing around, baby sitting on her lap so that they are belly to belly and the baby's face is breast level and nursing, both delightfully in the buff, naturally. There is forgiving lighting, perhaps. The mother may look (gasp) tired or (gasp) bored, but hopefully looks powerful and protective. I am thinking white ceramic bath with baby blue tile work, the grout a bit mildewed.

OR

Mama walking down Newbury Street, baby nursing in the Ergo carrier while Mama reads from her iPhone. Possibly she is holding the hand of her toddler too. She is definitely wearing a hat to cover her atrocious hair. It should be near dusk, after nap time and before dinner. The light a definite golden-pink, gentle, and forgiving.

Unlike Leonardo's painting, these images would be first of all about nursing. If they manage to evoke an awareness of grace and a glimmer of love made incarnate, so be it. And if they break open a new mom's imagination about the possibilities of breast-feeding positions, well, Amen.

The Tooth Heard Round the Dinner Table

Miss Iza has a tooth. On the way. I heard it.

Iza Biza was enthusiastically dining this evening. Her first course consisted of a puree of carrots, always a pleaser. The second course was an artful blend of quinoa and butternut squash. There was also an avocado chaser added as the meal progressed. She reached for her own spoon. Fine. I keep a spoon for Iza and a spoon for me. She reached for the bowl. Note: she reached for the bowl, not the contents. I held the bowl as she began to gnaw around its edge. Both hands began rooting in the quinoa-squash. This was fine dining. And then. . .the gnaw became a chomp. A tiny clink registered in my brain as it pinged again and again. This was no soft gum meeting pottery. This was bone on not-quite-bone china. Hooray!

So the mild fever, the frantic perusal of teething snake oil medicines at CVS, the regression to newborn crying patterns, the need to deploy the bouncy ball as a soothing technique, the middle of the night tears, the increased saliva and consequent gagging were all, indeed, the path toward the inevitable orthodontics she will don in twelve years. Mama had four teeth removed and wore braces with rubber bands. Tata grew up in Transylvania (Romania). If he had grown up in Grosse Pointe, he would have had braces, rubber bands, and the dreaded head gear. Miss Iza B., poor girl, is an orthodontist's brand new BMW ready to drive off the lot.

I rubbed her gum just to be sure. There it was: a jagged point. A rough edge. Elation followed by the realization that there are 19 more to work up through her sensitive gums. Teething, I know, is hardly the hard stuff. But it is portentous. Nevertheless,

I am gigantically, abashedly proud.

A tooth. I heard it first.

*please note how carrot puree acts nicely as an organic pomade for her coiffure in above photo

8-Months-Old on the 8th!

Miss Iza B. checking her email.

Things I have learned about Iza:

Miss Iza B. loves to get her wiggles out just before bedtime. This is important because prior to learning this I had been trying to establish a "calm and serene" bedtime ritual that entailed warm bath, warm pajamas, warm breast, and off to sleep. (Not to mention dimmed lights and soft music.) Night after night Miss I. would enjoy her bath and then promptly cry in a desperate sort of please-don't-torture-me way as I attempted to diaper and dress her for bed. One night I had to step away for a moment to retrieve the forgotten diaper cream. She immediately began to kick her legs as fast as possible and smile and shriek-with-glee. It turns out that she loves being in her birthday suit, warm from the bath, with mama and tata there to see her wiggle and roll and show off her newest tricks. As she plays we finagle her into diaper and jammies. Soon she is ready to nurse and fall asleep. Lesson: a girl needs her wiggles before she can get down to the business of sleep.

Miss Iza B. learns. The neighbors loaned us their exersaucer--a contraption that allows the baby to sit up and rotate around a saucer of toys while bouncing on her newly discovered legs. I had heard mommies extol the virtues of these devices. I placed Iza in it and she was all smiles for about 45 seconds. Then she hit a toy--a noisy thing that rotates. She did not approve. Subsequent attempts went like this: smile--loud noise--cry--removal to another diversion. So we set out to learn to love our excersaucer. I sat with Iza in my lap and we touched and "played" with the toys from outside the saucer for a few days. Sure enough she learned that the loud noises are just what she loves. Now she plays happily in it while I drink my morning jasmine tea and provide an audience.

Things I have learned:

EC. Elimination Communication. I admit that I had never heard of this until Iza was about 3 months old. I didn't believe it. This is the practice of going diaper-free. (Read more about it here: http://www.diaperfreebaby.org/) You observe your baby and allow her/him to pee-pee or poo-poo in a receptacle. You can start this when they are a few weeks old. Mommies and Daddies, I have see this in action. A friend practices this with her three-month old. When we returned to her apartment after tea, she noticed that her baby's diaper was dry. She held her over a tiny potty and said "pish-pish" (a pee-pee sound) and she did just that. This is cool. Saves on laundering cloth diapers for sure. Not to mention that it is an intense way of really being tuned into your baby's cycles. We are vigilant about what we put into them. Some parents are just as vigilant about helping those things go out.

I admit: I don't think I have the energy or will to practice EC. But I do admire it. Concession: I finally ordered cloth diapers. Yes, I will now, after 8 months, attempt to give up my Pampers habit and switch to cloth. (Al Gore sheds a tear of joy.) Some say that it is an environmental wash (so to speak) between cloth and disposable due to the fact that cloth diapers require more laundering, i.e. more water and soap introduced into the environment. Yet, 1) I like the idea of less plastic/fewer chemicals used on my baby's bottom and, 2) I also like the theory that she will potty train sooner/easier because she will not like the feel of wet/poopy diapers. Never mind the fact that cloth diapers are damn cute and user-friendly these days. Check them out: http://www.wildflowerdiapers.com/

I have also learned that sometimes, despite all your talk therapy, you have to break up with your pediatrician. It was painful. I had interviewed three pediatricians before Iza B. was born. I chose a woman who was professional, worked nearby, and seemed well connected to the community. It was a private practice of three woman doctors. I liked that.

I had prepared a list of questions that I asked each pediatrician. But truthfully I had no idea what I needed/wanted in a pediatrician. In Boston the number of good doctors is overwhelming. So I just went with my gut feeling--I liked her style. It turns out, however, that we clashed on some issues. She recommends cry-it-out and starting solids as soon as possible, among other things I came to disagree with. The final straw concerned vaccines. Long story short, she was unable/unwilling to discuss an alternative schedule for vaccines. A significant part of me wanted her to convince me this wasn't necessary, but she responded to my questions with an attitude of impatience and contempt. Contempt, as we all know, is a relationship poison.

I am happy to report that I easily found two other pediatricians that will work for us and so the transition has been smooth. Breaking up is hard to do. Really hard. At least for me. But, parent lesson number #777: You must buck up and act in the best interest of your child even if that means breaking up with your pediatrician.

Palin: Folksy Maverick

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSdFIDygFwM

Recommended Listening: Yoga: Meditation in Action

The following radio program is a wonderful discussion of yoga. Even if you do not practice yoga, you might enjoy how Seane Corn explains how it works on the body and mind.

Program Description:

Speaking of Faith
September 11, 2008
Yoga studios are cropping up on street corners across the U.S. Now there are yoga classes at YMCAs, law schools, and corporate headquarters. This 5000-year-old spiritual technology is converging intriguingly with 21st-century medical science and with many religious and philosophical perspectives. Seane Corn takes us inside the practicalities and power of yoga, and describes how it helps her face the darkness in herself and the world.

http://speakingoffaith.publicradio.org/programs/2008/yoga/

Way to Go, Mom

photo courtesy of: http://columnofchristine.blogspot.com/

Red Hats "chip" in

By Amy Bickel and Jon Ruhlen - The Hutchinson News

from the Hutch News online: http://www.hutchnews.com/Fair/sights

With their brightly colored hats and purple clothes, the ladies of the Red Hat Society are used to making an impression.

That impression was all the more unforgettable on Wednesday by the sight of about 20 Red Hat Ladies showcasing their cow-chip-tossing skills.

Lovella Kelley, who took first place, said she didn't spend a lot of time practicing - chucking dirt clods while working in the garden was about the extent of it.

Nevertheless, her "pie"-flinging abilities were enough to take top honors in a contest that saw several tosses of more than 40 inches. [Typo? feet not inches?]

Kelley, who admitted that she had some reservations when the idea of a cow-chip-tossing contest was first broached, admitted that she had fun. She didn't go empty-handed, either - she and the second-place winner, Agnes Hammerschmidt, had the honor of brightly colored ribbons to enhance their unique ensembles.

"The thing about being a Red Hatter is that there's nothing that embarrasses you and nothing you can't do," Kelley said.

Attn: Condundrum Department

Central Luggage Service

C/O Northwest Airlines, Inc.

Dept. C 5260

7500 Airline Dr.

Minneapolis, MN 55450-1101

August 26, 2008

Dear Sir or Madam:

My infant car seat, wrapped in a nylon red bag, was lost between Amsterdam and Boston on Flight NW 037 arriving in Boston on August 24^th. My File Reference Number is BOS NW 25353. I was given a temporary car seat to take my baby home. The following day my lost car seat was delivered. As soon as I took it inside I noticed a stench. The nylon bag and the car seat itself were infused with cigarette smoke. Needless to say, we are not smokers. When I called 1-800-745-9798, the number on my Luggage Tracing/Claim form, I was cycled through an answering service.

I called Northwest customer service and their best advice was that I should take my car seat back to luggage services at Boston Logan. The problem is that I cannot place my infant daughter in a smoke and toxin infused car seat and therefore I cannot drive back to the airport to present the problem. My husband is away traveling for the week. I am at home alone with the baby and have no car seat that I can use or any way of acquiring one until my husband returns one week from now.

Frankly, the car seat is repulsive. Although the fumes may (or may not) dissipate over time, how am I to know that the toxins will dissipate from the foam interior and the lining?

My car seat is a Chicco KeyFit 30, which I purchased for $169.99 (for which I have the receipt). The nylon bag –also smoke-infused—was approximately $12.00.

I write to you on the advice of a customer service agent who provided me with your office mailing address. Strangely, there was no phone number she could provide to help me address my problem (as the Boston number did not have a human being taking calls).

I await your response.

Sincerely,

JK Kelley and Baby Izabella

Unpacking

We recently returned from our usual summer trip to see family in Hungary and Transylvania. Of course this year Miss Iza traveled with us. Traveling as a mom requires a packing strategy. Namely, minimalism. Extreme. I managed to pack for both of us in the space I previously used only for myself.

We carried one suitcase, blue, containing: clothes and toys and assorted for Biza and me for one month. I carried one pair brown capri pants, one pair black yoga pants, one skirt, and one (nursing) dress. I wore one pair black capri pants on the plane. I packed seven nursing shirts in a variety of colors and styles. One sweater. Enough undies, one bra, one pair socks. I wore one pair Gola flats and packed one pair sandals, semi-fancy. One small green bag of toiletries.

I did not pack any books. (Normally I take 6 - 8 novels and 4 -5 Hungarian language books, including Hungarian-English dictionary.) I did download three books to my iPhone, including Tess of the D'Ubervilles by Thomas Hardy and The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton (99 cents each), both finished, both female protagonists killed off in the end; and the biography of Harry S. Truman by David McCullough ($11.99 through ereader.com), still finishing--I'm up to his run for senate.

One nursing nightgown. One pair silver loop earrings. Vitamins, allergy medicine, baby Tylenol. Diaper cream, two tubes. Baby wipes, two packages. Six cloth diapers. One nursing cover, black and white print. Nursing pads, disposable. One package disposable changing pads, Sassy brand. Knot It, diaper bag dispenser, two, and refills.

Pampers, fifty-one. (More purchased in Romania.) Baby soap/shampoo. Baby wash clothes, 12, disposable. Bug repellent, organic and non-toxic, which we never used. Nasal aspirator and saline. Infant nail clippers and file. Baby sunscreen, two kinds, one for general coverage and one for sensitive areas (i.e. hands and face as she would likely consume a small quantity). Three baby hats. Three sleepers. Six onesies. Four baby pants. One baby sweat suit. One baby jacket. Six pairs baby socks. One cute summer baby outfit, pink.

Of note: We had access to laundry at Grandma's. Washer only. There was no dryer. So all items had to be line-dried and then ironed, a process that takes at least two and up to four days. On the up side: have you ever seen a pristine, white, ironed onesie? It is almost a shame to put it on the baby.

Slings: Five. Two Over-The-Shoulder-Baby-Holders, one small sized and one medium. I used the medium sized one on the overnight flight there for hands-free nursing and sleeping, and upon arrival to Transylvania on the overnight train from Budapest. One Zolowear ring sling in attractive black and white print for afternoon strolls when the heat abated. One Solerveil, SPF 70, turquoise, mesh ring-sling for walks in the afternoon sun, used almost daily. Baby Bjorn, one, brought in case Tata wanted to use it. Used once, by me. Tata wore Iza in the Solerveil, once.

Diaper bag, large, black, Skip Hop brand, designed for a double stroller. Perfect for international flight.

iPhone, one. Used as camera and for email (we had a wireless connection filched with permission from our neighbor) and reading.

Baptism grown, flouncy, worn by Miss Iza at her baptism. She was hot. She cried. She looked like a princess. She had two sets of godparents. We rejected Satan. And all his works. No one told me that my bra strap was showing. (Can we photoshop that?) We acquired a baptism certificate, which we left at the church. The priest brought it to us at the luncheon. There were sixteen guests. We left the certificate at the restaurant. With great understanding, the priest provided a third copy before we left. I didn't pack it in my suitcase, however.

Toys: Mr. Giraffe, The Whoozit, the Whatzit, 12 hooky ring things, a Whoozit teether, a butterfly teether, two blocks for the bathtub, Mr. Monkey.

We didn't pack our rocking chair. We survived. We didn't pack travel bed bumpers. I survived, barely. I slept with her at night and often during naps as well because I was afraid she would roll off the bed. She did not.

One infant car seat with sun cover. Four blankets of varying size and texture. One scarf used as toy.

I carried two packages of sanitizing wipes. These were used to swipe the armrests on the plane. (Except on the last leg from Amsterdam to Budapest, when she decided to quietly chew on the armrest as I napped.) They were used extensively in the couchettes for our two overnight train trips. The muck they "cleaned" was disconcerting.

Acquired: one gold Swarovski cross pendant, blessed by priest at baptism. Ms. pink elephant. Two chocolate salamis. One canister green tea from France, as a gift from guests from Hungary. Baby brush and comb. Two bibs. Two sets of godparents. A measure of confidence.

We have been to Budapest and to the heart of the summer Carpathians. Now getting myself out the door to spend an afternoon in the park seems much less daunting.

Firsts

Miss Izabella has eaten her first fruit, her first food, banana. She loved it. I wanted to exclusively breast-feed for the first six months and we made it to that goal. She turned six months here in Transylvania not long ago. I had intended to wait until we return to the States to start solids to avoid the chance of her developing rashes, constipation, etc. while traveling. But she was ready. She watched us eat with eager eyes and started to smack her lips.

I had debated which food to give her first for quite some time. Many people start with rice cereal, often mixed with breast milk or formula. But it didn't make sense to me to start with a boxed food when you can just as easily give a fresh fruit or vegetable. Why not start with fresh, real food? I also debated the symbolism. (I know, ridiculous.) We are in Transylvania; why not start with a local food such as a potato or a summer apple? In the end, I went with the banana. Not local, but arguably universal in these modern times. No cooking. I simple mashed a chunk with a fork. No baby spoon? No problem. I just used my finger. The second day I used a coffee spoon (metal, not recommended because it might bash into her sensitive teething gums). Yes. She loved it. She told me "no more" by turning her head. Good girl, she already knows how to say no. An important skill.

Another first: first blood. This morning I held her in my arms and we gazed into a mirror. I admit I indulged in some self-narrative praise for my beautiful little person. She tentatively reached out and stroked the glass, meeting her mirror image and trying to grasp her own hand. I lovingly gazed at her play. Then I noticed that she was streaking the mirror and I thought, "how sweet that she is making her first mess." Then I realized it was blood. She didn't complain at all despite the fact that her index finger was now a fountain of sweet strawberry blood. What? Yes, the mirror has been there for at least the 10 years that I have been a visitor here. Yes, it has been cracked down the middle for all those years. Countless times I have pondered how we would definitely not live with a cracked mirror in the States--bad omens coupled with potential safety issues. I guess I had grown immune to its dangers. I gazed adoringly on as I allowed my baby girl to gouge out the end of her index finger. Let's just hope she is left-handed.

Really, she never cried. Either it was not painful or she is ready to play the part of The Cheerleader on the television series Heroes (who miraculously recovers from all injury). But try to apply pressure to a six-month-old's index finger. Good luck. And I had dressed her this morning in a pristine white onesie, freshly ironed as all clothes are at grandma's. A bit of blood on her onesie will go well with her lunch this afternoon, grey mashed banana. I am going to have to learn the art of stain removal soon.

File Under: People With Whom I Would Love to Share a Meal

Please watch this until the end.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jx-ualuq45E

Wordle Fun

A friend passed along information about a site called "Wordle." You can enter any text and it creates a "word cloud" with the most frequently used words. It is very cool. As a sample he entered the text from my blog entries about baby Iza.

Here is the the result:

Check out the site here: http://wordle.net/

Things I Will Likely Forget About the 4-Month Mark

Iza B. takes a nap about one hour after she wakes up in the morning.

I am addicted to jasmine pearl tea.

I eat a lot of sandwiches.

If it has pomegranate in it, I consume it: juice, tea, ice-cream. Curiously, I haven't had an actual pomegranate all season. Alas.

I still drink ginger ale. But I don't keep it in the house. I give myself a treat when we are out and about in the summer heat.

The air conditioning broke and the whole system will be replaced next week.

I have discovered that I follow the Attachment Parenting method, which was news to me. I was just doing what came naturally. (I have instincts!)

Sometimes when I have a let-down (the cells decide it is time to release milk), it feels like electricity in my breasts.

Iza B. has persistent cradle cap. Luckily her hair is so profuse that it is hidden. We put cream on it and wash it in the morning. She still loves to have her hair washed--I hold her over the bathroom sink and then towel it dry.

Can't live without: rocking chair.

Can't live without: a light with a dimmer for her room.

Can't live without: a changing table that allows me to stand up straight and thus avoid back strain.

Obviously can live without: crib, which is still in the box. (We will need it soon enough! She is quickly outgrowing her bassinet.) She spends her first long stretch of sleep in the bassinet. After that we share a bed for the rest of the night. If I need a snooze, I rub her tummy and get at least ten more minutes of sleep.

Secretly addicted to: Hanna Anderson baby clothes. Yummy.

Iza loves to "talk." One day a few weeks ago she was being dried off by her Tata and she burst into a quite elaborate monologue with raised eyebrows and hand gestures. She is articulate without being verbal.

We have no schedule. We are okay with that.

I have finished reading three (non-baby) books since Bizzy was born: Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides, One Drop by Bliss Broyard, and The Grass is Singing by Doris Lessing.

Iza B. is an infrequent pooper: sometimes twice weekly! when she poops, she POOPs.

Can't live without: the big blue exercise ball--thought we might use it for labor BUT truly it is genius for soothing the baby. A must have. And I have toned muscles. Win, win.

Still haven't switched to cloth diapers AND I may not have the will to do it. Ack. (Next time?)

Major breakthrough: there is no such thing as THE perfect stroller. You must own at least two--one for the car (attaches to car seat, for quick trips) and one for the open road.

Biza hates the car seat. Don't believe them when they say babies LOVE to sleep in car seats. Not all babies are so inclined. I am told she will grow out of the screaming-like-death-is-imminent phase.

If I can't order it online, we don't need it.

The way she greets me each morning with a 100 watt smile.

Can't live/breastfeed/rock without: the iPhone. Truly, genius. I can email/facebook/check the weather/read the New York Times/text message my husband in the next room all while singing off-key lullabies to little Iza. Pictures of Iza on my iPhone right now: approx. 508.

When they ask if she sleeps through the night, I say, "Yes, except when she wakes up to eat, of course." Smile.

She can roll onto her side. Look out. Here she comes!

(This post was started 6/12 and posted 6/25)

Sausage and Ice (and how to change the world)

You know you must be married to a Hungarian when cooking sausages and making mashed potatoes in the middle of the first heat wave of the summer sounds perfectly reasonable and appetizing. A few hours later I had the baby in a sling and a bag of ice pressed to the tender skin of my inner wrist as we walked to the local drugstore for burn ointment. Yes, I managed to prepare the sausages but not without incurring a burn. Skin tends to burn when you touch pans simmering on a stove. The baby was crying. The sauce, which I was trying to prepare from the pan drippings, was scorching. A little flesh wound is not a high price to pay for good sauce. Except the sauce was lost and a burn makes rocking your baby to sleep virtually impossible. (Although I did manage it with a bag of frozen strawberries to soothe my wrist.)

At any rate, there I was walking to the pharmacy with my little baggie of ice. And I started to think about ice. How Americans love their ice. What is summer without a 64-ounce limeade with a pound of ice to keep it cool? I contemplated how much ice we love to submerge in our oceans of Coke and Pepsi. Imagine the water "wasted" as ice. Imagine the energy consumed to store the ice. In some cases, the gas to transport the ice. Please, some economist out there (calling Steven D. Levitt, author of Freakonomics) calculate what would happen if we merely halved our ice consumption habits at fast food restaurants. Ack. And then I had an idea:

What if *insert large fast food chain* offered a "green" drink option? Half the ice. Of course, ice allows them to sell you less product for more money. So, reduce the size of the cup. Thus you get the same amount of liquid, no revenue loss for them. AND it reduces the amount of paper used as well. Double whammy. Here is the real marketing genius: charge 5 cents MORE for the green option with 1 cent going toward some environmental cause and the other cents covering the production/labor costs of the "green" drink initiative. Win, win, win. Think of the PR points that *insert large fast food chain* stands to earn. Think of the cultural capital it could then spend on marketing its newest monster beef burger.

And I've come full circle: from sausage to the environment and back to the meat.

The sausages, by the way, were handmade by Sulmona Meat Market with no preservatives in Boston's North End (little Italy) and were very tasty despite the 90 degree weather. The ointment was a waste of money and did nothing for the pain. I slept with a little baggie of ice and by morning I was ready to rock, by which I mean rock in the rocking chair.