My sweet sister gave birth to a perfect baby boy just a few weeks ago (I could digress, waxing eloquent on my newest nephew's darling elfin features and cute facial expressions, but I'm sure you can imagine for yourself). And Nellie is in love, although she's never actually seen him. She asked me his name and then tried to Russianize it: "So-ya," she pronounced carefully, nodding her head. "That's a nice name."
Each week she asks me how the "little boy" is doing, and each week I give her a progress report. One afternoon she threw me for a loop. "What does he eat?" she queried. "Does he eat milk?"
"Yes, of course," I answered, not sure what else a fairly newborn baby might consume.
"Where does your sister get it?"
I wondered if Russians were shy on the subject of breastfeeding. "Well," I said, "she nurses him."
Nellie spoke a little louder, as though I had misunderstood the question. "But where does she get it? At the store?"
"No," I repeated, "from herself. She nurses him."
"Moloko," Nellie said in Russian. And then, in English, "MILK." Back to Russian: "For the baby. Where does it come from? Where does she buy it? Don't you understand milk?"
I was mystified. "Yes, I understand milk. For the baby. Moloko. She doesn't buy it anywhere; she nurses him. Haven't you ever seen women nursing their babies?"
Nellie shook her head in disbelief. "But my mother told me that American women NEVER nursed their babies. They ALWAYS buy milk at the store."
I had almost no words. "Well...umm...that's not true." And Nellie was astonished.
