in our hands

I gave in.
I read this article (http://www.wikihow.com/Dissuade-Yourself-from-Becoming-a-Blogger) a while ago and resolved not to do this. Not to start a self-indulgent, navel-gazing chronicle.
And then three things happened.
1. I read Melissa Wilkins' blog (http://www.makingthingsup.blogspot.com/) and was wholly entertained. Thanks so much, Melissa (that's meant to be sarcastic).
2. My husband, Dyami is so quotable. Like last night, holding our three-month-old, Lucia, he said, "I am moved to tears by her. I mean, a few years from now, I won't be able to hold her like this, in my hands." I love you, Dyami.
3. I am always tempted to think that my new life isn't worthy of contemplation. I mean, it's mostly made up of whether to nurse in-sling or on-couch, various ways of holding my daughter so she'll poop in the sink, and the benefits of swaddling. With a side of keeping Lucy happy in the car.
However, motherhood is important. And I'm only starting my new life as a mother, and while it's tempting to ignore the change and lust after my old life, I would rather boldly decide that what I do now is interesting and important.
So, a blog.
By the way, "the spice choir" is what our friend Angela dubbed the spice rack, because it has riser-levels of spices, all lined up. I like to sing and cook, so the name seemed fitting.

As for important details of my new life, here is my current dilemma:
How do I keep people from exposing me?
See, when you nurse, you have to expose yourself, um, to the air. When out, I nurse Lucy in a sling, and wrap the tail end of it strategically, so you can't even tell I'm nursing.
But the problem is, people can't tell I'm nursing. Then they're drawn to Lucy's cute face, and they want to see it. Though I'm pretty sure they don't want to see my nipple at the same time.
Here's the conversation I had today with the lovely woman who helped me load my Trader Joe's bags into the car:
Her: "Let's squeeze that last one into the back. Careful! It's really heavy. Okay, done. Now, can I see her?"
Me: "Um, sure." (fumble, fumble) "Let me just get that nipple covered up."
It's not like I can blame people. I *do* have the cutest baby girl on the planet. And it's not that I'm that embarrassed (after thirteen years of ballet and stripping down in tiny dressing rooms, I'm not that modest). It's more I'm embarrassed that they'll be embarrassed that I'll be embarrassed.
It's even worse with men: our lovely pastor started moving the strategically placed tail of my sling after a church service, as I'm saying, "Oh--she's eating--oh."
Boy, was his face red. And mine for him. And so on.