My littlest is going through that dreaded separation anxiety phase. If I leave the room he cries. If I move out of his line of vision he cries. If I’m not holding him he cries. If I’m not feeding him he cries.
His face is either gazing up at me in wonder or scrunched into a horrified scream: HOW DARE YOU LEAVE ME EVEN FOR A SECOND?!
I remember once wanting dog because I liked the idea of someone always being happy to see me. Little did I know that having a baby in separation anxiety phase is like that times a billion. As much as I really want to say that I’m loving it – there are times when I’m so sick of being touched every second of every day (and all through the night) that I just want to scream.
Touched out. That’s me. I love hugs I do. I’m that terribly awkward person at parties who hugs people, and then apologises because I didn’t read the situation properly and hugged someone who didn’t want to be hugged and made it weird. I often make it weird. Too many times at dinner parties I’ve destroyed conversations by saying something terrible at the worst time ever: “Oh yeah, I read a thing about a woman who kept hearing leaves rustling and it almost drove her mad and she torched her backyard and got rid of every tree to destroy every leaf but it turned out it was spider eggs hatching inside her ear. Can you please pass the bread?”
Being such a hugger, I shouldn’t get sick of hugs from my kids. But they’re worse than me! They cling to my legs, stroke my hair, rub my cheeks, kiss my hands. I feel like I’m coated in infant saliva by 10am. It’s lovely to always have someone to cuddle but when I just want to pee and I have two little beings gazing up at me with a look like they’d like to climb into my stomach and just sit there – it’s full on to say the least.
Then of course my poor husband comes home and I visibly recoil when he kisses me on the cheek. Touched out! It’s the same for him, when he’s at home with the kids all day while I’m working. I get home and he shucks them from his legs like barnacles from a boat and throws them at me (don’t worry not literally – it’s more of a soft roll).
Velcro baby is a term used for babies like this but I think it’s fairly common in all kids – whether it’s a phase, stage, or personality type. I think my oldest also fits the description, but he at least sleeps on his own now. So with my youngest I’m just waiting to see if he grows out of this stage.
Until then, at least I know I’m not alone. I walked past a mum the other day wearing three kids and I thought – at least I’ve only got two.
I know one day they’ll be taller than me, strapping young men who not only don’t mind their mum not being in the room but prefer it that way. They’ll be off to uni, maybe they’ll be doing an apprenticeship or going on their OE – and I’ll be the desperate barnacle, trying not to invade their personal space. Trying to have a bit of decorum and not beg them to stay with me. Making sure their father doesn’t let me turn up at their hostel to let them know I can watch their bag while they travel or study. Maybe carry it around for them while they journey, I promise I’ll walk a metre behind them. Any way for me to be close to my not so baby boys anymore, trying desperately not to drop to the floor and cling to their legs as they pack their bags to move out of home.
Just the thought of it makes me need a hug! Maybe I’m not so touched out after all…
Read more from Emily at her site www.emilywrites.co.nz. Follow her on Facebook and Instagram.
