The Milk Machine

Like all good mothers, I have no privacy.  Any me-time must be captured during naptime or after bed time, and for the sake of myself and the people around me, I have to shower in the morning everyday, which means I’m naked for a few minutes.  Since I have two rambunctious tornadoes, I leave the doors open for all access.  Usually my boys don’t even try to find me as Mickey Mouse and his clubhouse are much more fascinating then bugging their mom.  To Disney, I owe them a debt of gratitude for that.

Only today, Evan was bored and came to tell me that he and Master Monkey had made me suckers and would I like to come down and get one.  I said sure as I toweled off and got out of the shower to find clothes.  Evan bounced on the bed as I searched for some clothes.

 

Evan: Mommy, what are those?!

 

Me: (looking down at my bare chest) My breasts.

 

Evan: (pointing) No!  What are those?!

 

Me: My nipples.

 

Evan: Do you make milk with them?!

 

Me: (Ok, he can’t remember me breastfeeding Sean, can he?) Yes.  For babies.

 

Evan: Mmm.  Do we have a milk machine in the house?

 

Me: What?

 

Evan: Do we have a milk machine somewhere in the house?

 

Me: (I’m picturing a cow milking machine with its wires and tubes.  While I sprung for the extra cash to get a nice electric breast pump, I’m sure that’s not what Evan’s talking about, and if it is, I’m not stupid enough to show him, as I picture him telling strangers about “the milking machine” at his house.)  Not the one you’re thinking of.

 

Evan: Ok!  I like milking machines!  I like milk!  Do you want to get some milk, Mommy?

 

Me: Yes; let me find my shirt.

 

 

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