Wow. Laura Lippman's Slate diary has a very nice mention of this weblog. I'm not sure my writing's ever been called porn before. Obscene, yes. Porn....I'll have to check. (Meanwhile, if you haven't read Lippman's Tess Monaghan mysteries, I insist you do so immediately. I don't read many mysteries, but I love Tess and I love these books).

Meanwhile, I'm happy to report that Lucy seems to share her mother's affection for the seashore. We've taken her down to the beach a few times and she's fallen asleep in her bouncy seat to the sound of the wind and the waves. And she's screaming a lot less, which I ascribe to a combination of the fresh ocean air, lots of walking, and my mother, who sings to her in Yiddish and rocks her in the rocking chair and can get her from tantrum to fast asleep in record time.

She's still working hard on getting her thumb in her mouth. So far she's managed everything but her thumb -- her index finger. Her pinky. Her wrist. Her forearm. We went out to dinner the other night with our friends Charlie and Abby, and midway through the main course Charlie looked into her carseat and raised his eyebrows.

"Your daughter," he reported, "has somehow gotten her entire fist into her mouth."

Odd, but true.

Jen