My neighbor just had a baby boy. Infants and their security blankets are like peanut butter and jelly…they go perfectly together. I found a soft security blanket with assorted tags adorning all four sides called Little Taggies Naturals. These blankets are made with 100% certified organically grown cotton fibers, pure silk ribbons and safe dyes. For $28.95, you can buy one too at taggies.com or your local specialty gift shop.

- Stephanie, KIWI staff and lover of families

I love buying baby clothes. When I was younger, I remember going shopping with my mom and my best friend. While my mom was busy looking for clothes, my bf and I pretended to shop for baby clothes. Now, my friends are having kids and I can actually buy clothes for real babies. My new favorite line is Organically Grown. It is affordable 100% pure organic cotton baby wear. How affordable? $22-$38 at Macy’s and Gottschalks!

- Stephanie, KIWI staff and lover of families

My cousin, Maggie, loves The Earth Friends dolls. She takes Jayden everywhere she goes. I know she’ll be happy to receive another eco groovy doll to add to her entourage. They are handmade in California and inspire to learn to honor ourselves, each other and our planet. The best part is that all of the materials are either recycled or organic. For $64, you can get one for girls and boys at Whole Foods nationwide or theearthfriends.com.

- Stephanie, KIWI staff and lover of families

By the time I left the hospital, baby Sylvie had bit my nipple and swallowed part of it. It was bleeding and raw. We both had yeast infections, which my doctor didn’t treat so the pain grew more and more intense. Not only was I angry at my doctor for not knowing anything about breastfeeding, angry at the hospital lactation consultant for pushing her social agenda of “keep breastfeeding no matter what,” but I was also angry at my girlfriends who never told me how difficult and painful it was. I was terrified of my sweet little baby every time she had to eat. So instead of being happy and elated, I felt angry, stupid, scared and alone. Great.. But I was not giving up!

After breast infections, house calls from the amazing boob doctor Dr. Mona Gabbay and the illustrious Susan Berger, emailing photographs of my breasts to them both, weekly breastfeeding support group meetings at Real Birth, begging and paying our post-partum doula Tara Brooke to sleep over, having my dear husband latch Sylvie onto me (which was like waiting for the perfect wave), banning my unsupportive mother from coming over for weeks, and even pumping for two weeks to get of the mental hang-ups I had created, at exactly eight weeks and one day, it stopped hurting. And we got into a rhythm. And no formula! I won! But don’t get me wrong—this was my Olympic Event and no one else’s.

I learned that women don’t tell their pregnant friends how hard it is because they don’t want them to stop trying, give up or be scared. It’s like a gang initiation rite. I now give the Sears “Breastfeeding Book” at any and all baby showers. New moms look at it with an “oh….” and soon-to-be grandmothers look at it equally suspiciously, hoping for cute Baby Gap outfits. But a month after the babies are born, they’re all grateful!

I was so adamant about nursing my newborn and never having formula touch her lips that I told my husband that, should I be unconscious or writhing in pain, if he so much as hinted to a doctor or nurse that they could give our baby a bottle, I would harm him and then the entire hospital staff. This alone was reason enough to hire a doula, but my husband couldn’t understand why I didn’t trust him to honor my wishes. So instead, I taped little signs in her plastic baby warmer shoe box thingy that said “100% BREASTFED. NO FORMULA.” The store The Upper Breast Side actually had little index cards for that purpose.

At any point, you can say that this behavior is crazy. After four days in NYU Medical Center, I know the system. And they’re actually pretty good about the whole nursing thing, or at least wanting the new moms to nurse. My husband may opt for a doula next time around because I was pretty rough around the edges and the birth contract I drew up to review with my doctor, in hindsight, may have been a little crazy.

Long story longer, this is about breastfeeding, not about my birth. But I ended up having to have a C-section and in the haze of the post-op recovery room (which was literally a storage closet) I yelled and demanded my baby so I could nurse her for the first time. I had no idea what I was doing. Even though I had watched a breastfeeding video at Real Birth, and the most brilliant lactation consultant ever, Susan Burger, had drawn me diagrams of proper latching, which I brought to the hospital, I knew nothing.

Nursing killed. I thought of “American Psycho” and “24.” I was supposed to be thinking lovey-dovey things, but I was so freaked out, confused and hormonal, I had no idea if I was doing it right. The nurses couldn’t help—they all told me different things. I needed one clear voice, but realize now that the whole business of lactation support and instruction is a complicated soup of medical, cultural, social and personal issues.

I had to make it through that first night alone until the lactation consultant at the hospital could visit me the following day. However, even though she insisted I attend her support group, my legs were numb and I couldn’t walk for 2 days. So instead, I ate microwaveable Annie’s Mac’N’Cheese in bed and continued schooling myself in breastfeeding.

-Audra Hughes

I had the benefit of working from home during my pregnancy.

Since I had only two pregnant friends ever, when I became pregnant I dove into research, becoming obsessed with things that had no prior relevance to me. My neighbor was an infant massage and prenatal yoga teacher so I devoured all of her books. I read everything, including out-of-print hippy-dippy books like the Wise Woman books, “Spiritual Midwifery” and “Our Babies Ourselves,” and the bestsellers with some good fiction (“Midwives”), and comedy (Jenny McCarthy’s “Belly Laughs”). I could talk the talk. By the time my husband Michael and I began our baby classes, I could have taught them! One thing was certain: I did not trust the medical community and I was obsessed with both breastfeeding and immunization policy. Unfortunately, the Sears “Breastfeeding Book” came along after my pregnancy, I can now recite it by chapter. If my next kid is a boy, his middle name may be Sears.

I have a hard time not being so forthright about nursing and pushing my social agenda because it’s consumed my life for the past two years. I could have an associate’s degree in breastfeeding at this point. I realize that ultimately and most importantly, a woman has a right to choose whether or not she wants to nurse. Some women physically cannot nurse (or have surrogates or adopt) and certain occupations make it very difficult to continue, so I try to be very respectful. But sometimes I’m not. (Sorry!)

-Audra Hughes

My daughter Sylvie just turned two. For the past year, I’ve been trying to wean her, and guess what: I am failing. I am not in control.

This morning, my fearless toddler leaped out of her crib sideways as if jumping into a wave, all in an effort to coax me into the glider chair that has become my straight jacket. If I try to do anything else, she has a meltdown. What would happen if I got rid of the chair or put it in the family room so my husband could glide, drink beer and watch hockey? Well, we all know what would happen. I’d be sitting on the floor of Sylvie’s room while she wrangles my bra exclaiming “BOOBIE, BOOBIE, BOOBIE!”

So for a moment, I relax, and melt into her moody blue eyes that give me a special flirtatious wink, reserved only for me. A few minutes go by, I fall back into my morning panic, peek at the dog who is desperate to go outside and imagine the boob job I’m going to need in a few years.

I experience a hundred different emotions on a daily basis about breastfeeding. It consumes me. I have my highs and lows. Some days I feel empowered and loving, while other days I feel resentful and guilty. To be a Type-A control freak who is controlled by a baby comes with its own set of issues.

Hello, and welcome to The Boob Chronicles.

-Audra Hughes