Touched Out

I was in month two of my maternity leave, sitting in a cozy arm chair in our family room, nursing my six week old for, oh, maybe the 70th time that day, when my sweet and loving two and a half year old son scrambled up in the chair and squeezed himself in the minuscule space between me and the chair arm. He kissed my cheek and I said thank you, but I was feeling a bit claustrophobic. The July heat was penetrating the room and getting the best of the air conditioning. And little Marlowe is like having a portable heater strapped to your chest. I kissed him back and suggested he play with his toys on the floor, but he didn't budge.

He sang and patted his sister on the head. It was so cute, but all I could think was get these kids off of me! I tried again to distract my son and told him I thought I heard Piggy calling for him to play over by the couch.

"Piggy's not here, mommy," he said. "He's in my room."

Just then my husband decided to take a break from his writing and come say hello to us all. He smiled at the sight of his little family piled on top of each other in the arm chair. He came over, placed a hand on my shoulder and kissed my head. The kiss that broke the camel's back.

"Okay!" Was all that came out of my mouth, but I quickly handed the baby to my husband and walked, through the kitchen, into the living room and out the front door. I was sort of surprised to find myself out there. My body had been on autopilot in a hunt for space. I took a deep breath and sat down on the step.

I was touched out, over touched, suffering from no-more-touchiness. I love nursing my baby girl and I love snuggling with my little boy and I love when my husband kisses me on the head, all a separate times.  It makes me feel like I do not own my body and I feel out of control, which is not enjoyable for me.

This is happens to a lot of moms, dads too probably, although I think dads suffer more from lack of touch in the early month of a new baby, but I'm sure there are cases to be made. It happened to me when it was just Beckett, but now that I have two, it's a bit more frequent.

I try now to give Beckett a project when I'm going to nurse, a puzzle or some crayons. That works, sometimes. Other times, if my husband is around, I sneak away to another room and shut my eyes while I nurse Marlowe. And sometimes there is nothing I can do. Beckett needs me, Marlowe needs me, I breath through it and take a long bath later, if time permits or allow myself two glasses of wine after Beckett's in bed and let Hillary bond with Marlowe over a nice warm bottle.