The bedroom door was closed and it was very, very quiet—both telltale signs that something was amiss. My son was supposed to be putting on his pajamas.
I knocked gently.
I knocked louder. The door swung open. Junior stood there in his pajama bottoms. His shirt was nowhere to be seen.
"It's not working!" he shouted.
"What's not working?"
He pointed to his nipple. "Nothing's coming out!"
"I'm milking myself," he said, like I was an idiot, "and nothing is happening."
"Junior, honey, only moms can make milk. Not little boys or even dads."
He threw his hands up in the air. "Why didn't you tell me this sooner?"
I'm going to go ahead and file this one under "Things I didn't think I'd need to explain."
Funny, isn't it, what we take for granted?
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