“Milk on the big couch!” he says, and so we are on the big couch, his body twisting away while still attached to mine, his free arm like a windmill. When he is done with milk, he crawls down.
“I’ll be right back! Milk stay right here,” he says, patting the couch.
I pull my nursing shirt down.
“Open milk!” he orders. “Just be running around.”
He runs off down the hallway.
“Milk, milk,” he says when he returns, lifting my legs so that he can travel between the couch and the coffee table.
“Would you like some more milk?” I ask.
“No!” he says, grinning at me from the side chair.
I wonder if he realizes that I am not the milk, even though the milk comes from me. It amuses me to consider that perhaps he does not, and I smile.