I Love My Kids, But PLEASE Stop Touching Me

There. I said it.

I love my children more than anything in this world. I would do anything for them. They are my North Star.

And I would also like them to please get off of me.

Both things can be true.

Because nobody really warns you just how physical motherhood is. From the minute they're born, somebody needs your body. You're holding them, rocking them, feeding them, carrying them, wiping them, cuddling them—and then they become actual children who can walk independently...and somehow they are STILL. ON. YOU.

Sir. You have legs. Please use them.

Motherhood Has Absolutely No Personal Space.

My boys are always touching me. Always on me.

Sitting next to me isn't enough. No. We need to be sitting on Mom. Leaning against Mom. Laying across Mom. Randomly grabbing Mom. Following Mom from one room to another.

And don't let me sit down.

Apparently, a seated mother sends out some kind of homing signal to children.

Mom has stopped moving. ATTACK!!

When Mom is TRYING to read in bed. Both boys take that to mean let’s lie ON. TOP. OF. Mom OR fight over who gets to lie next to Mom.

Meanwhile, I can no longer read the words on the page, have absolutely NO idea what just happened in the book, and will need to start the entire page over whenever they decide to move on to something else.

Because apparently Mom reading quietly in bed is an open invitation for FULL-BODY CONTACT.

The funny part is, I love their affection. I love that I'm their safe place. I love the random hugs and the “I love you, Mommy” moments.

But there comes a point when my entire nervous system is like: THAT'S ENOUGH LOVE FOR TODAY.

Sometimes I Am Just Touched. OUT.

There's a phrase for it: being touched out.

And before becoming a mom, I don't think I could have fully understood it.

It's not that I don't want affection. It's that after hours of someone needing something from me physically, mentally, and emotionally, another hand on my body can feel like ONE. MORE. THING.

Some days, by the evening, I don't want anyone leaning on me. I don't want anyone climbing into my lap. I don't want anyone tugging on my clothes. I don't even want my clothes touching me wrong at that point.

When I am on the verge of being touched out, I start to notice every single noise, sensation, on myself and everyone around me. When I AM touched out, I just started yelling…because at that point, I can no longer. Then my boys proceed to tell me that I am being mean because I am yelling but when they are ALL. OVER. ME. and have been asked more than once to move to an arm’s length distance yet continue to not listen…the irony is too loud.

That's been an interesting thing for me to recognize: sometimes when I feel myself getting irritated, it's not really about whatever tiny thing just happened. I've just reached capacity.

And Then Comes the Mom Guilt.

Because naturally, the second you think, Can everyone PLEASE stop touching me? another thought comes right behind it: They're only going to be this little once.

THANKS, BRAIN. I KNOW.

I know there will eventually be a day when my boys aren't constantly climbing all over me. There will be a day when they don't automatically reach for my hand. A day when they don't want to snuggle next to me.

And yes, I will probably miss it. But knowing I'm going to miss something someday doesn't mean I have to enjoy every single second of it today.

That's something I'm trying to give myself permission to believe. I can treasure this season and still get overstimulated by it. I can love being their comfort and still need my own space.

I can want the cuddles sometimes and say, “Mommy doesn't want to be touched right now,” other times. Those things don't cancel each other out.

Usually after those moments, I immediately feel guilty for yelling at them because that is something I am actively trying to change. But then I get frustrated with myself for allowing myself to even get to that point of being touched out without taking charge prior to.

I'm Also Trying to Teach Them Something.

The more I've thought about it, the more I've realized that telling my kids I don't want to be touched isn't necessarily a bad thing.

I'm teaching them that people get to have boundaries with their bodies.

Including MOM. That's actually something I want my boys to understand.

We can love someone and respect when they need space. We can hear “not right now” without interpreting it as “I don't love you.”

And, in turn, I want them to know they have that same right.

I use examples in real time with their friends - they might want to hug one of their friends but that friend doesn’t want a hug at that moment. I have taught them that it’s okay for a friend to not want a hug and to respect that boundary. The playing can commence minus hugs.

I also use examples in real life with each of them - one might want to play together with the other but is quickly rejected because they want to play alone. I remind them that’s okay to play alone and it’s okay and necessary to respect that boundary. It’s okay to feel sad about it but they must honor each other’s wishes for personal space.

Because motherhood and friendships don’t mean that bodies suddenly became community property.

Finding Tiny Pockets Where Nobody Needs Me.

Sometimes I don't need an elaborate self-care routine. I don't need a spa day. I don't need a weekend away.

Sometimes I need ten uninterrupted minutes where nobody touches me or says “Mommy!”

That's it. That's the luxury.

Maybe it's sitting in the car for a few extra minutes. Maybe it's taking a shower with the door locked.

Maybe it's staying awake after everybody goes to sleep even though I KNOW I'm tired because it's finally quiet. Maybe it's disappearing into a book.

When I am actively in my “please nobody need me” zone, I am face down in a good book or zoned out listening to an audiobook with my AirPods in.

Those little moments don't magically erase the overstimulation. But they remind me that I'm still a person underneath all the roles I fill for everybody else.

I Love You. Now Scoot Over.

One of the strangest things about motherhood is how two completely opposite feelings can exist at exactly the same time.

Come here, let me hug you.

And:

Okay. That's enough. Please move.

Neither one makes the other less true.

My boys are my favorite people. Their hugs can make the worst day better. I love being the person they run to. I love that they feel safe enough to curl up beside me.

And sometimes...I would like approximately three feet of personal space.

Actually, make it five.

And everytime I enforce the boundary of giving me personal space, I hope that my boys know they can implement that in their own little lives…even with each other!

Because I know one day I'll look back and miss those little bodies climbing all over me.

But today?

Respectfully, I carried each of you for nine months.

Your lifetime allotment of being inside my personal space has been fulfilled.