On Physical Touch
Last night was rough.
My four-month-old baby’s reflux was in rare form, keeping her tossing and turning and in need of comfort for hours. This morning my back aches from holding and bouncing her, my milk ducts are clogged and nipples sore from nursing her. Everything hurts—my body expended for the sake of the touch she desperately needed.
But a certain little boy woke up to his sixth birthday and deserves a big bear hug. The two-year-old continues his streak of refusing to eat unless my body is wrapped around him on the bench. Two more children yelp with needs as they get ready for school. This is my season of life right now: to offer myself, wholly and bodily, to those in my care.
Many days I love the physicality of motherhood: the feeling of chubby legs squeezed around my hips or little fingers stroking my cheeks are some of the best parts about my life. The touch of my children can nourish me in a way nothing else can.
And yet, it’s complicated.