“Mommy, does Baby William get milk from your lips?”
Eleanor was asking me this one afternoon as I held her on my hip in the kitchen.
“My lips?” was the only reply I could give. What was she talking about?
“These, Mama,” she replied, patting my ample chest. “Your lips.”
Ah.
“And I have lips, too!” she said, raising her shirt to show me.
How — how — how did this mix-up happen? That’s what I want to know.
Casa Camisas 