America’s Distaste for Mommy’s Milk
I don’t know a lot about a lot. I’m only four months old, after all. My understanding of the world revolves around one thing: milk. I love milk. I love my mommy’s milk. Really, like there’s no form of measurement grand enough to represent how much I absolutely love my mommy’s milk. It is my breakfast, lunch, dinner and snack. I love it so much that I often drink too much of it, which makes me vomit. And when I do, I always vomit on myself so that none of that sweet, sweet goodness goes to waste. Because my mommy’s milk is so good that it not only fills my tummy with vitamins and protein, but it also helps keep my skin healthy. Incredible, right?
Yeah, my mom’s boobs are awesome.
The stomach tightens and sinks.
The heart and lungs follow.
It’s a confounding reaction to a receipt of affection.
It’s familiar, and, therefore, oddly comforting.
But familiarity can be a curse.
A cursed reminder of what once went wrong when you were just trying to do things right this time.
This time it’ll be different, you say.
Why? You’re different, but what are you doing differently?