I hated milk as a child. The one constant argument I had with my mother was over “Finishing my milk”. Seven year old Sarah would sit at the table desperately wishing her milk would disappear, questioning how anyone could ever cry over spilled milk.
And then I milked a cow. By hand. Into a bucket. So her calf would have something to drink. It took 45 minutes of tediously pulling on each teat to fill half of the bucket. For every squirt that made it into the bucket, half ended up on the ground or on me. My wrists were cramped and when I couldn’t get my fingers to get any more milk out of the cow, I stopped, stood up, and pulled the bucket out from under her. Just as I did that, she kicked and the milk went all over the ground.