There are women who think breastfeeding is disgusting. And there are those who go far in the other direction; nursing becomes the core of their identity (see “Mothering” magazine, La Leche League, etc.). A true wishy-washy moderate, you can put me square in the middle of this continuum. I loved nursing (and was amazed by how much I did), but I must confess, part of the reason was that it allowed me to catch up on magazine reading and “Law & Order” reruns. I spent a fair amount of time gazing down at my adorable baby like the ladies in the LLL, but I also read almost all of “American Tabloid” with Kate at my breast, and I’ve sometimes wondered if some part of James Ellroy traveled from my brain into my milk. I guess I’ll know if she starts smoking at 11.

Anyway, every year around this time the shagbark hickory outside Kate’s bedroom window turns a vivid shade of yellow, and we have about a week when the inside of her room is bathed, all day, in magic-hour light. It’s so peaceful, and it always reminds me of the weeks leading up to her first birthday, when I enjoyed one of those brief periods of ease that convince you you have this parenthood thing knocked. I nursed her in the rocking chair in her room, looking out at the yellow tree, singing little mom-and-baby songs, enjoying it all so much.

The other day the tree yellowed up in about 24 hours. I took this lousy picture, which couldn’t even come close to capturing the effect of the light on the sponge-painted sky-blue walls. It’s not magic to you, but it is to me.

So, then: Bloggage!

“Dr. Strangelove” is rotating through the AMC channel of late, and I’ve caught a bit here and there. For years, I rented this movie every year — on New Year’s Eve, not that it’s significant except as a comment on Fort Wayne NY celebrations — and Roger Ebert is right: It just gets better. The NYT had a Sunday story on the upcoming DVD release, with the not-very-surprising news that it’s not so much satire as documentary.

Lance Mannion is hot lately, but thinks no one is reading him. Go prove him wrong. Or just read this one.

Confession: I only watched the first third of Friday’s debate. The rest of my evening was spent catching up with “Family Bonds,” which I haven’t been able to catch until now. I…well, I loved it. How can you not love a show that uses AC/DC’s “TNT” as its opening theme? A reality show about a family of Long Island bail bondsmen? It is to swoon, particularly if, like me, you enjoy eavesdropping on women in nail salons, where the bail-bonding ladies seem to spend every other day. I’m alone in this assessment — the show’s getting killed by critics — but care I do not. Here’s one of the kinder assessments.

I’m finally able to make serious progress in “What’s the Matter With Kansas?” You should, too — it’s fabulous. More on that when I finish it.