For years, we've had the nagging feeling that something in our lives was missing. Something primordial, like we'd had a twin in the womb who died and our mother never told us. Then we read this:
When my son was a few months old and my dear, dear friend Anastasia was at the end of her pregnancy, she turned to me one day and said, "I have a request."
"Anything," I said. After all, she had come over two or three times a week since my baby was born to help me as I finished a book. She'd done everything from returning phone calls to burping the baby to vacuuming. When she tipped over in the course of trying to rock my son, Skuli, she bonked her head rather than drop him, prompting me to wonder if it was fair to relegate administrative tasks and baby-care to a woman who was nine months pregnant.
"I want us to nurse each other's babies," Anastasia said.
"Okay," I said, immediately.
"They'll be milk-siblings," she said excitedly.
"Yeah," I said. "Wow."
Breast Friends [Babble]