I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but I’m basically the most popular person of all time…at least in this house.
According to my children, I’m the mom equivalent of the popularity that would be fostered by combining Lebron James and Blue Ivy Carter with the fandoms of the Biebs and One Direction and some other teeny bopper bands I’m not cool enough to know all rolled into one unshowered, stubbly-legged phenomenon. Or pheMOMenon. (See what I did there?)
Basically, my kids think I’m the Bomb Dot Com. (I really wanted to say the Bomb Dot Mom, but decided against it because it’s really dumb, but then couldn’t resist putting it in anyway. Please don’t leave me on account of my back to back bad puns. I love you, stay forever.)
There are a lot of blog posts and Pinterest pins all addressing the issue of moms being “touched out.” I sort of don’t think “touched out” begins to describe it. That phrase makes me think of some Victorian era lady admonishing her little ducks to give her fewer loving caresses. “I’m just touched out, darlings,” she’d say. To which they’d reply, “We understand, dear Mummy. You rest while we go hit a hoop with a stick and practice our needlework.”
Guys, I have a two year old who loves shoving her hands down my shirt to jiggle my cleavage. Her big sister gets a kick out of forcing me to smell her breath and the 10 month old literally pulled my pants down as I was cooking dinner last night.
They don’t touch so much as they claw and grab and poke. They poke my eyes and shove their fingers into my mouth to pinch my tongue. After that, they lick my knees and sneeze into my ears. The moment I sit down, someone is climbing onto my shoulders, pulling my hair, and whispering hot nonsense into my ears.
And God forbid I try to go to the bathroom by myself. I don’t even try half the time. I’m just used to an audience at this point. But every now and again, I’d like a moment. Just one moment to visit the facilities in peace…not having to answer questions about bottoms or have my output checked by the Cleavage Handler. It would be nice to wash my hands without having to keep someone away from all the toilet paper or the nail polish.
And sometimes, sometimes when my husband is home, I do it. I dash out of the room, slamming the baby gate behind me and run up the stairs to the bathroom like an escaped convict to do my business in peace. I’m like Steve McQueen in the Great Escape and I ride my motorcycle all the way to Potty Town.
It’s rarely as satisfying as I’d like, though. Our walls don’t do much to muffle the blood curdling shrieks of the girls who hang on the gate like it’s the Wailing Wall.
Maaaaammaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrggghhhh…we loooooovvvee youuuuuu! Mamaaaa, Mamaaaa, MAMA!!!! Take us! Take us with you!!! We just love you, Mama! Take us with youuuuuuuu! Maaahahahahammmaaaa! We miss you! We need you, Mamaaaaa!!!
That just goes on loop for as long as I stay upstairs. It’s fantastic.
At times like these I always think of those wildlife videos they showed us in school. The lioness would have lion cubs climbing all over her and I always thought she was cruel for snapping at them or biting their heads. “They’re just so sweet and cute,” naive little me thought. Little did I know that I’d feel like biting some heads in a few years…and I’d be completely justified. I’m sorry I judged you, mama lion. I’m so, so sorry.
I know this time of life will pass and I’ll probably miss it. I know I will, actually. But for the time being, I feel like this poor bulldog, just trying for one teensy moment to get a shred of a break from my offspring.
Hang in there, bulldog mama, hang in there…We’re gonna make it after all.