Okay Lactnetters, a little Dostoevsky:

Grigory took the infant, brought him into the house, sat his wife
down, and put him in her lap near her breast: "God's orphan child is
everyone's kin, all the more so for you and me.  Our little dead one
sent us this one, who was born of the devil's son and a righteous
woman.  Nurse him and weep no more". (Brothers Karamazov)

All being drinks the mother-dew
Of joy from Nature's holy bosom;
[Schiller. Ode to Joy (as in Beethoven's 9th)]

More Tolstoy:

"And have you any children?"
"I've had four; I've two living, a boy and a girl.  I weaned her last
carnaval".
"How old is she?"
"Why, two years old".
"Why did you nurse her so long?"
"It's our custom; for three fasts..."
(Anna Karenina)