“Boobs…” said my five year old, leaning contentedly on my chest “are just pillows of milk.”
I smiled, what a beautiful innocent thought. My breasts, once feeding and comforting my now five year old, and again now, nurturing and growing my new baby, who was firmly and contentedly attached.
“Boobs are just pillows of milk” I thought, “just pillows… of milk.”
I had not one thought, not even an iota, that one of them would try to kill me.
