So I’m sitting in the rocker nursing Rebecca. C is playing nearby. She looks up and says, “I want to nurse Rebecca.”
A bit taken aback, I said, “Well. You can nurse your dollies, but you can’t nurse Rebecca.”
“Why?” asks C.
I thought a moment. “Well, your b–bs don’t have milk. Only Mommy’s b–bs have milk.” (Yes, I use the word b–b with my three-year-old. I hate technical terminology.)
Without a moment’s hesitation, C announces indignantly, “I have peetend milk in my b–bs!”
I’m hardly able to contain my laughter.
Then a moment later she says, “I like nurses. Mommy, when I was a baby, did I eat your nurses?”
I give up. I’m howling, tears are streaming down my face.
C, quizzically, “What, Mommy?”
“Yes, honey,” I reply, “you sure did.”
