I don’t like to be touched. I’m not kidding. My personal space bubble isn’t huge but it’s mine. Stay out of it. And don’t try to cure me by hugging me when you see me. Not going to work. You may get a black eye out of the deal, but I’m not going to suddenly enjoy human closeness. It’s not my fault. I was born this way. Ask my momma. Even as a baby, don’t cuddle me, don’t rock me, don’t try to hug me, just put me in bed and walk out the door. I almost carried a stun gun around when I was pregnant since the whole world believes they are supposed to touch the pregnant woman’s stomach. Not this knocked up lady. Step away from my belly!
For the record, this fear of human contact does not extend out to my children. I have spent the better part of 2.5 years trying to convince the Kraken to stop moving long enough to give me a snuggle. It’s not going well. That may be the only trait that boy inherited from his momma. What a crappy gene to pass along. At least now I can claim his as mine and people believe me.
So when my beautiful little girl suddenly became a cuddle bug I had to remind myself that she was indeed my daughter. (It wasn’t hard; I was there the day she slid into this world.) At least ten times a day, my little Siren will waddle over, grab my leg and look at me with those eyes that can only be saying ‘hold me momma.’ As soon as she is up in my arms she will bury her head and snuggle. It’s probably the best thing ever. It also makes the wailing at 1am, 2am, 3am, 5am and 8am less irritating because at least I’m going to get a cuddle out of the deal. In fact, my husband jumps up and tries to beat me to her room. It’s funny because all this time I thought he could sleep right through her crying . . .
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