The physicality of motherhood

For years, my body served as a safe space for my daughters. They wanted and needed my physical self. I gave it to them, willingly and with few restrictions. They slept in my arms, snuggled in my lap, rode my hip when at the park or while shopping. From infancy until well into the middle grade years, both routinely snuggled me.

This physicality, at times, exhausted me.

In my short story, Equinox, published by Every Day Fiction yesterday, I write about the pressure of the physicality of motherhood, the impact a child’s constant need for physical touch, to be held, to be connected at the physical level can have on a mother. The desperation vs responsibility, as one thoughtful reader put it.

This is not the first time I’ve tried to address this issue. In my essay, Invading Eden, published on Medium, I attempt to examine the same theme.

I continue to write about this subject largely because, for me, the physical demands felt surprising and often overwhelming. I’ve always been a private, physically distant type of person and motherhood challenged my physical boundaries in almost every way.

My girls have now grown out of the phase where they need or want my constant physical self within easy reach. I am no longer their lap to crawl onto, their snuggle safe place, their comfort zone – at least not as frequently. This is an incredible relief, freeing.

But at the same time, I miss being needed physically. I ache for their touch, for their small, tender legs and arms climbing onto my lap. I recognize this loss as a part of the process of parenting, that the intended goal is to nurture our children to a point where they are self-sustaining. Still, the ache remains.