LaNisa Allen was a new mom, trying to juggle nursing (and likely sleep deprivation, and postpartum recovery) with her job at Totes/Isotoner Corporation in Ohio. Her four-month-old son, Travian, ate every three hours, which meant that in order to keep her supply up, she needed to take frequent pumping breaks from her manual labor position. Unfortunately, her employer was only willing to offer her a single pumping break, five hours into her shift. By that point, she was engorged, leaking and in pain. When LaNisa began taking extra breaks, to pump for 15 minutes here and there in the bathroom, she was fired.

Plenty of pregnant women plan on breastfeeding their child throughout their first year of life. Why not? It’s free, it’s portable, it helps you drop the baby weight and there’s no bottle warmer required.

According to a recent Michigan State University study, half of affluent women who plan to nurse for a year are successful in meeting their goal. Now compare that with the 1.8 percent of low-income women like LaNisa who are able to say the same. The reason? Mostly, it’s a case of a lack of resources to help these new moms tackle the breastfeeding obstacles that come their way. When money is tight, dialing up a lactation consultant might not feel like a feasible option; it’s hard to pump at a job where you are earning $8 an hour… or when a $300 pump is out of the question altogether.

That’s why I was so excited to hear about this new Get One, Give One partnership between theBoppy Company and the Nurse-Family Partnership (NFP), a national nonprofit organization that helps improve the lives of low-income, first-time moms — many of whom are teen moms – and their babies. I am absolutely in love with this idea. A nursing pillow is more than just some cotton filled with stuffing — it’s comfort, encouragement, intimacy, nourishment and dedication. Formula babies get all of these from their moms too, of course, but formula costs between $1400 and $2800 per year; for a low-income mother, breastfeeding a child could be the difference between being able to comfortably shop for groceries one week versus needing to scrape by. Breastfed kids are also less likely to be obese as adults, be diagnosed with allergies, leukemia or diabetes, or die from SIDS, leading to further health savings.

Our daughter nursed for 13 months — I would have loved to go longer but some personal medical issues got in the way — and it was one of the most meaningful and enjoyable experiences of my life. (Yup, I was that mom.) My husband and I are fortunate to be in a position where we could have afforded formula if we needed it, but were lucky enough that my milk came in, our baby latched well and my job as a freelance writer offered me the flexibility needed to make it work. In my opinion, anything that helps remove roadblocks to nursing is a winnerand this program qualifies.

When you’re giving yourself a shot of estrogen in a Starbucks restroom or couch-bound for two days straight after being put under anesthesia to have 20 eggs harvested, it’s hard not to feel like you are the only woman alive living through the pain of infertility.

To make it worse, sometimes it feels like each and every woman you pass by has the most perfect baby bump and everyone is pregnant. There are pregnant women standing under street lights and perched near lamp posts, pregnant women hailing a cab on the corner, pregnant woman strolling into and out of every baby shop on the street; hell, even the stop sign seems to be telling you, “STOP trying and it will happen.”

It’s such a 21st century cliché to cry, “Everyone else is pregnant except me!” But in the thick of treatment, there is no persuading yourself otherwise. I remember at one point in our own infertility journey texting my husband a list of about 14 girls I knew on a very close basis who were all pregnant, punctuating the message with a self-pitying “WHY NOT ME?” (I’m sure my plummeting self confidence and a deep sense of despair were incredible turn-ons.)

But once you allow yourself to open up, you find that you’re not at all as alone as you felt. For me, the moment I begin speaking about our struggle, women leap out of the woodwork, revealing their own battles to me. Perhaps it’s an age thing: More of us are waiting to have children, or maybe it’s a result of chronic environmental insults: Crop-enhancing pesticides, air and water teeming with pollution, canned tomato sauce brimming with fertility-sapping BPA. As one of my acupuncturists once opined, “You think hick girls living on the family farm in Arkansas are having trouble getting pregnant? Of course not.”

This week is National Infertility Awareness Week. Whether you are in the midst of a #CLOMIDFAIL, en route to @injectable_drugs or about to post a pic of your IVF baby’s 12-week ultrasound to Facebook, please know that you are not alone. For every woman who conceives on her honeymoon, another needs gobs of help to make it to her babymoon or is hunkered down on an adoption waiting list, eager to meet her beautiful child.

Despite the fact that you have received three baby shower invites in the past week and the cover of People features a 64-year-old actress and her newborn twins, remember that there are hundreds of thousands of other women lurk in the shadows, quietly chugging FertiliTea while en route to their morning ultrasound to see how thick their uterine lining has bloomed overnight.

Don’t be afraid to talk about it — like an HCG test, there is strength in numbers.

Did you share your journey to conceive with others?

Plus, more from The Bump:

Infertility Warning Signs

How to Deal When Everyone Else Is Pregnant (and You’re Still Trying)

How Much Fertility Treatments Cost

After making it through the first year, I can now look back on that inaugural visit and laugh. These days, I’m in Babies R Us approximately once every 13 hours, and I’ve had the layout of the infant section tattooed on my left forearm so I never need to ask where to find pouches of organic prunes or Dr. Brown nipples.

There are items that, urged by other moms, I registered for, only to have them languish in their packaging for months and months. Other items were procured in the first months after our daughter was born and were immediate winners.

Learn from me and be sure to snag the following:

1. A continuous sound machine. The “continuous” part here is key: Most popular baby sound machines shut off after 15, 30 or 60 minutes. In the beginning, we relied on the Sleep Sheep and the instant the rain stopped drizzling or the ocean waves stopped crashing, our baby stopped napping. My mother-in-law suggested the Sound Oasis, which you can set to a “Continuous” setting. Get one.  

2. Baby Einstein Take Along Tunes. A veteran mom (twins plus one on the way at the time) gave us this and promised us we would soon come to rely on it. I have since bought myself a 20-inch lightweight chain and looped it through the multicolored plastic handle so I can wear it around my neck like some sort of protective anti-wailing amulet. In the beginning, when the babe was freaking out in the backseat of the car and I had no idea what to do, I would switch on Baby Einstein and hurl my arm backwards, holding it inches from her face…and, like magic, the crying would stop. I only wish it had a continuous function (See above.)

3. My Brest Friend. This thing basically became a postpartum physical appendage. I loved it so much more than the Bobby, because the Brest Friend Velcros around your waist, acting almost like a lumbar support (and believe me, considering a new mom slouches more than a preteen boy hunkered over his Xbox 360 as he embarks on Hour 8 of Madden NFL, you will need lumbar support.) I wore My Best Friend pretty much 24-7; the look was completed by a half-open nursing tank and a Nick Nolte mug shot hairdo. Warning: You will come to associate the sound of Velcro with your baby crying for food, and the next thing you know, you’ll be letting down at the gym when the dude next to you straps on his weightlifting gloves.

4. Nose Frida SnotSucker. As Shelleybean3333 put it on amazon.com, this is “the grossest thing you will ever love.” While pregnant, I scoffed at the notion of sucking boogers out of an infant’s nose. Then, I tried that blue rubber bulb and realized it was like writing a term paper using the Dewey Decimal System when the internets are just a click away. Sure, the deep, sustained inhaling will make you sound like you are an extra in Dazed and Confused, but much like picking scabs or popping zits, you will love the rush of achievement that comes from clearing your kiddo’s nasal passages with nothing more than a good, strong inhale.

5. The First Years Breastflow Milk Storage Organizer. If your supply is good, once you start pumping, you will quickly begin filling bags to store. These bins squeeze the bags so they freeze flat and take up less room, then corral them so you don’t have breast milk packages obscuring your frozen pizzas or fighting for space with your ice cream.

6. Puj Hug Hands-free Hooded Infant Towel. Sure, it’s great if you have a partner nearby to help bathe the bambino, but sometimes baby decides to squeeze a packet of Justin’s Almond Butter into her palms and then rub her fingers through her hair when your partner is still at work. (Not that this exact situation happened or anything. Twice.) The biggest trick: How to extract a tiny, squiggling wet human from the bath and transfer her into a towel without dropping her or drenching yourself. Enter the Puj Hug. Simply connect the two tabs attached to the towel behind your neck with the hood facing out. You can now bend over, grab Squirmy McGee to your chest, then give the towel a quick tug to release it so it can quickly wrap it around the baby. (Note: I have not actually tried the Hug, as it’s just hitting shelves as we speak. But it sure would have come in handy on Tuesdays nights when my husband plays basketball and bath time is just me, baby, and Pandora Sesame Street.)

7. Wine. I wish I had registered for wine. Lots and lots of wine — after baby’s arrival.

Things you can do without:

1. Nail clippers. Save yourself $7 and use what you have at home.

2. Wipe warmer. Unless your nursery is located inside an igloo, Junior’s tush will not get frostbite from room temperature wipes.

3. Mittens. Much easier to use long-sleeved shirts with mitts attached.

4. Sterilizing bags. We used these starting around month 2, when my husband began feeding her a bottle at night, then quickly weaned off of them. By 10 months, I was letting her eat gooey wet banana slices off of the floor in Starbucks – kidding!

What were your must-haves? What did you skip?

Plus, more from The Bump:

10 Fun Gifts for Your Baby Registry

Registering for Baby?

What Baby Gear Is Worth the Splurge and What You Don’t Need at All

My husband and his father celebrate an annual tradition of attending the Final Four together. Two years ago, he left for their 13^th straight trip, in Houston, just as the two of us were embarking on our 17^th month of trying to get pregnant.

When you’ve been trying that long and that hard to make a baby, and your husband is about to spend four nights 938 miles away from your ovaries, you make a contingency plan. In this case, it involved my being prepared to pay an obscene amount of money to book a last-minute flight to Texas, then sending his father for a massage so we could use their joint hotel room for a little March Madness of our own.

Two years later, we have a little girl, and I am happy to say that her conception story does not involve a Marriott double bed, nor is she named after any of the Connecticut Huskies (although “Shabazz Goldman” does have a nice ring to it).

And just for fun, a little March Madness lingo:

Air ball: Sex that fails to result in pregnancy.

Benchwarmer: A husband forced to sit on a waiting room couch as the doctor inseminates his wife with his sperm.

Buzzer beater: Frantic, desperate sex that takes place minutes or hours after a positive ovulation predictor test.

Draft: The selection process during which your reproductive endocrinologist decides which embryo(s) to place in your uterus.

Dribble: The melted white progesterone goo that leaks out of your vagina during an IVF/injectable cycle.

Double dribble: The light blue combination progesterone/estrogen goo that leaks out of your vagina during an IVF/injectable cycle.

Elite 8:Octomom’s brood; an undesirable IVF outcome.

Layup: The post-coital act of lying in bed with your legs in the air in order to give those swimmers a gravitational edge.

Rebound: The period after a failed month of trying during which you psyche yourself back up to give it another go, often with the assistance of copious amounts of Pinot Grigio.

Shot clock: The timer that starts ticking the moment you give yourself your HCG trigger shot and ends with you lying with your legs in stirrups for an insemination or embryo transfer.

Three-point play: Putting in three embryos because at this point, you don’t even care if you get pregnant with triplets – you just want something to stick.

Triple-double: Double-digit figures in three categories of infertility treatment (Example: 14 months of trying on your own, 12 months of Clomid or injectables, 10 weeks of acupuncture)

Slam dunk: To get pregnant during your first IVF cycle.

Plus, more from The Bump:

Getting Pregnant Checklist — Start Here!

Pregnancy Prep for Moms-to-Be

March Baby Madness: How Basketball Inspired My Triplets’ Names!

The single craziest experience of my life took place on Saturday, February 11, 2012. It was four days after our daughter was born, and we had spent the week in a hazy hospital fog, full of elation, bewilderment, and more than a little Vicodin. Everything was going well, except for the fact that my milk hadn’t come in and a condescending pediatrician whom I’d never even met before was warning me that it might not ever come in. If our baby lost more than 10 percent of her birth weight, she threatened, we’d need to start supplementing… and baby girl was currently at 9 percent.

Friday night, I sent my husband home to get a good night’s rest – his last for the next 18 years. Throughout the night, the nurses brought our daughter to me every few hours to feed, and I gazed down, attempting to mentally will the milk to flow from my breasts through her rosy little lips. The next morning, I did the slow, achy post-C-section shuffle into the bathroom to take a shower. I peeled my tank top over my head, and what I saw staring back at me was more startling, and left me more slack-jawed, than the fact that a human being had been excised from my belly while I lay awake just a few days earlier.

WHAT THE HELL ARE THOSE? That’s all I could think: “What are these monstrous torpedoes rocketing out of my chest?”

Just four hours ago, I had small a small B cup and could find work as a stunt double for Kate Hudson. But today, I would need to shoo away paparazzi who, with a red wig, might mistake me for Christina Hendricks. I felt like Josh Baskin in Big, going to bed a prepubescent 12 and waking up 30.

I texted my husband: “You are going to die when you get here.”

My milk had come in (and we fired that pediatrician!), baby began gaining weight, and so began 13 months of nursing. Her first year of life was filled with many highs and plenty of lows, but one constant has been my love of breastfeeding. From the moment the Labor and Delivery nurses placed her on my bare chest just an hour after delivery and she instinctively wriggled her way over to my left breast and began sucking, I was hooked on the intense connection and bond. It didn’t matter that in the beginning weeks, she kept falling asleep and we would have to gently flick her ears or strip her down and spritz cold water on her to wake her up so she’d eat enough. It didn’t matter than I wasn’t sleeping more than two or three hours in a row for weeks on end. I would stumble into the nursery at 3am, lay her across a pillow on my lap and gaze at her while she drank. The words, “This is my pleasure” ran through my mind, over and over.

I’ve managed to parlay the experience into entertaining blog fodder and even gave my breast pump a Twitter handle.  I have nursed in restaurants, back alleys, coffee shop bathrooms, poolside and on United Flight 450, seat 32A (although I was better suited to seat 36C, heh heh!). I have lugged my Medela Pump In Style to Mexico, Miami, Rhode Island, New York, Michigan, Los Angeles, Orlando and more, and had La Leche League programmed into my cell phone on speed dial.

I have awkwardly hovered over our baby on her changing table, attempting to squirt breast milk into her eye to clear a clogged tear duct, until I realized a bottle of milk and a small spoon might be a tad less messy and far more precise. I have bought so many nursing pads, I’ve lobbied CostCo to start carrying them, and have sacrificed precious ice cream space in the freezer for bag after bag of frozen milk. And it’s been more than worth it, because when baby would be fussing (or sometimes downright screaming) from hunger, or crying from the surprise sting of a vaccination, relief was just inches away… and I was her relief. I’d click open my tank; her cries would be muffled, her eyes would roll back slightly and she would instantaneously start running her hand through her hair, over and over, soothing herself as she ate.

To be able to nourish another being in such an intimate way is an extraordinarily powerful feeling, and I was awestruck by my body’s capability. Sure, I loved the side effects — I basically ate whatever I wanted for a year without caloric repercussion and rocked never-before-experienced cleavage. My body image has been through the roof for the first time since… ever? But it was the cozy closeness — lying in bed together in the very early morning, stroking her blonde hair and holding her hand as she ate — that I craved and adored. Plus, she’s basically never been sick, and as her one-month doctor’s check-up progressed to her two-, four- and six-month appointments and she kept growing and growing, I felt an awesome sense of pride.

But with the all-time high came the all-time lows. I cried – A LOT. My husband and I bickered like never before. I’ve struggled significantly with anxiety and had an embarrassingly tough time striking a balance between work and parenthood. I looked like hell from the shoulders-up, thanks to cavernous under-eye circles, shedding hair and a skin tone whose matching Clinique foundation would be called Anemic. But breastfeeding was easy for the two of us, and it quickly became one of my favorite experiences ever.

Now, I’m packing away my nursing tanks and I feel like crying. For the past 13 months, I have cycled through these five tops, day in and day out. I have slept in them, planned outfits around them, worn them to Starbucks when they were stained with milk splotches and out to dinner at nice restaurants, dressed up with tight jeans and boots. They are black, black, grey, grey and navy blue with white lace trim, and they, along with my breast pump and impressive collection of plastic bottle parts, have essentially defined me.

And now it’s time to stop nursing. A good friend suggested that, rather than picking a final date in the future and approaching it with dread, why not decide after the fact that, “Hey, maybe yesterday was my last session”? That way I’d enjoy the final nursing without realizing that’s what it was. So that’s what I did. Over the course of two months or so, I ramped down from five sessions a day to one. Then I left for an overnight business trip — I even brought my pump with me — but when I returned, I decided it was time. So I don’t exactly remember the last session; they’re all kind of blended together in one composite memory. And what a lovely memory it is.

How did you know it was time to stop nursing? Was it hard for you to let go?

Plus, more from The Bump:

How Breastfeeding Changes as Baby Gets Older

Baby-Food Making 101 (It’s Easy — We Swear!)

The Best Foods for Your Baby (Plus a Few to Avoid)

Homemade baby food is lovely in theory, but when you’re sapped from a day filled with work, on-demand nursing, tummy time, diaper explosions and maybe three minutes of alone time, the thought of turning your kitchen into a Jackson Pollock-esque disaster zone, splattered with squash puree and streaked with strained peas, is somewhat unappealing.

On those days when I can’t muster the energy to whip up dinner from scratch for our baby, I turned to my best friends, Jars and Pouches. But what to do with all those leftover glass pots? Why not upcycle them into a cute Valentine’s Day art project? After all, it’s not like you have time to go shopping for your sweetie, anyway – might as well turn your trash into treasure.

Try these fun projects (some of them are good for getting your older kids involved, too!):

Plus, more from The Bump:

Cute Valentine’s Day Crafts for Toddlers

Valentine’s Day Ideas Every New Parent Will Love

Adorable (and Fun!) Valentine’s Day Crafts for Kids

As parents of an 11-month-old, our home is bursting with obnoxious toys: there’s Latke Larry, a Jerry Stiller-voiced singing Jewish robot who croons about potato pancakes; then there’s the Baby Einstein Take Along Tunes, a handheld music box that blares out the William Tell Overture on infinite repeat.

But nothing – nothing – makes me want to stab myself in the eyeballs quite like the V-Tech Spin ‘n Learn Top.

According to the manufacturer, the “interactive” Spin ‘n Learn Top “has lots of ways to get baby started learning early,” including animal names, numbers, dancing lights and “silly sounds.” This includes a maniacally giggling dolphin who sounds eerily similar to Jack Nicholson’s Joker character after sucking on some helium, and an 11-year-old hyper-caffeinated girl scream-chanting, “TAKE A SPIN AROUND THE SEA, MAKE NEW FRIENDS, FEEL THE BREEZE!” There appears to be no. volume. control.

I normally love V-Tech’s line of toys so I’ve allowed this bad acid trip of a product to remain under our roof, but yesterday’s latest hallucinatory migraine pushed me over the edge. And so, I will be placing the following ad on Craigslist: ‘Free to a Good Home: World’s Most Annoying Toy.’

The ad will read:

Barely-used, much-despised, nine-inch tall V-Tech Spin ‘n Learn Top available at no cost to a good home. Originally purchased for $15 by a well-meaning grandmother, this multicolored plastic auditory Molotov cocktail features a punch-drunk octopus, a hysterical galloping turtle and a lobster with “Side of Drawn Butter” written all over him. Ideal home is larger than 3,000 square feet to allow ample sound-dispersing room between parent and child; hearing impairment with mutable hearing aid buttons a plus. Please do not contact Seller to complain; she cannot hear you, as her ears have already bled out.

Any takers?

What toys drive you crazy?

Plus, more from The Bump:

The Best Musical Toys for Baby

Hottest Toys for Baby and Toddler

What Baby’s Playing With That Isn’t Safe

In the months leading up to our first flight with the babe, my husband let all sorts of awful scenarios fill his head: Evie screaming her head off the entire way from Chicago to Mexico; us making our way through security while drawing death-ray stares from the child-free fliers behind us.

“Mostly,” he says, “my fears revolved around us being ‘that couple.’ I mean, we had a two-week discussion about whether to drive to the airport or strap our daughter’s car seat into a cab.” Breaking character, I remained relatively unworried: I just thought, “We’ll do what we need to do to get through the flight: We can always strap a bag of puffs to her mouth and let her watch an in-flight The Office if she gets fussy.”

As it turns out, Evie, at the time 10.5 months old, was a dream passenger, and is now on her way to become a miniature frequent flier. We planned our flight to correspond with her morning nap, I nursed her while taking off to keep her ears pressurized and she fell asleep just as The Odd Life of Timothy Green started playing. A notoriously light nap sleeper, she even made it through the pilot’s extremely loud and incredibly close greeting, which bordered on filibuster in its length. Dan and I were oh-so-pleased with ourselves as we settled in for the movie… until I made the embarrassingly rookie mistake of cracking open my ice-cold Diet Sierra Mist and woke Evie up 45 minutes into the flight. We hadn’t even passed over Kentucky and I was already in the dog house with my husband.

Luckily, our baby rallied and was an utter delight, babbling and playing Peekaboo with fellow passengers as we paraded her up and down the aisle. (Her request for a Bloody Mary was denied; I gave her a Booby instead.)

I’d think most parents are freaked out about flying with their little ones, but the truth is, the entire process went incredibly smoothly. True, we had more baggage than the Kardashians, what with the Pack N Play, breast pump, Baby Bjorn, car seat, stroller, our clothes and toiletries, Eve’s outfits, 40 diapers, toys, blankets, pouches of food… you get the point. But we were also afforded plenty of perks, just by virtue of our pitiful appearances. To wit:

We got to slip the crazy 200-person line snaking its way towards security. An agent spotted our caravan of crap and waved us through some special bedraggled parent corridor and BOOM! we were unloading our stuff onto the conveyer belt.

I was allowed to bring my bottle of water through security under the guise of “food” for the bambino.

At the gate, I asked the ticket agent if there were any rows with three seats. There was, and just like that, Evie had her own $900 seat for free (we strapped the Chicco in).

We steered our Uppa Baby through the airport and checked it at the gate, which means it essentially functioned like a free luggage cart, carrying my purse, laptop, diaper bag, latte and more.

Once in Cancun, our skin was spared seven days of premature wrinkling because we stayed under giant umbrellas to protect Eve’s vulnerable baby skin.

When ordering food, you can ask the waiter to “bring some sliced avocado for the baby as soon as possible,” et voila: Instant appetizer to accompany your mojito.

You get to sleep in every day and read books while lounging by the pool. OK, actually, it’s the exact opposite. #newreality

How do you plan for travel with your little one?

Plus, more from The Bump:

Baby’s First Trip

Is It Safe for Baby to Be in High-Altitude Areas

New Mom Tips for Flying With Baby

Well, nipples, we’ve had a good ride.

For nine months and three weeks, we essentially coasted through breastfeeding. Sure, there were cracks in the beginning; Daddy bought stock in Lansinoh Lanolin. Round-the-clock nursing left you burning up; we pushed aside some oranges in the produce drawer to clear space for cooling gel pads. But for the most part, you escaped unscathed.

Until December 1, when our little girl’s very first tooth emerged, popping its head out of her lower gums like a tentative woodchuck on Groundhog Day. And now, you are afraid. Very afraid. Like a 53-year-old freshly divorced periodontist with a shiny new Ferrari and a brewing midlife crisis, Evie’s more than a little excited to show off her new toy. As a result, I now need to nurse with my thumb hovering an inch above her chin, poised and trigger-finger ready to pull her chin down if she forgets you’re not a skin-flavored frozen bagel.

Thankfully, there have only been a handful of half-hearted nipple nibbles so far. I read that technically, it’s impossible for babies to nurse and bite at the same time so the key is to be prepared; ensure a solid latch and pull her off the moment she stops sucking. A friend told me to smush her head into my boob the second she bites and yell, gently but firmly, “No!” (she said it would make her start to associate biting with suffocating and she’s soon quit) but I tried that once with an ex-boyfriend and all it did was turn him on.

Look, plenty of moms breastfeed well past their little ones cutting their first teeth. You think TIME Magazine Mom took a two-year hiatus while her son’s gums filled out? She didn’t quit and neither are we. My gut tells me Evie won’t even be a biter so until she proves us wrong, let’s keep up the good work – our one-year goal is within sight! And don’t worry: I’m taking back the “Team Edward” onesie given to her by Twilight-fan aunt with the dark sense of humor. Not funny.

Did your baby’s teeth affect your breastfeeding relationship?

I asked my 9-month-old daughter, Evie, what she’s thankful for this Thanksgiving. She clapped her hands, belched, then picked up her copy of Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See and started babbling:

What I’m grateful for this Thanksgiving

• Mommy’s boobs.
• A fresh, dry diaper…ahhh.
• The awesome orange monkey mirror hanging from my play mat gym.
• All-night sound machines – especially the White Noise setting.
• Boobs.
• Avocado chunks that aren’t too slippery and just the right size to gum down.
• Pureed prunes — for when I have that no-so-regular feeling.
• Rubdowns from my nanny, who happens to be a trained massage therapist.
• Milk (see: Boobs.)
• The occasional glimpse of television — that screen is transfixing!
• Photos of my parents, which never fail to bring a huge smile to my face.
• The wind in my hair when Mommy and Daddy push me on the swing.
• Sneezing dogs – that s&%t is funny.
• Have I mentioned boobs?

Happy Thanksgiving, baby!

What do you think your baby would say she’s thankful for, if she could talk?